Four Years

 

I can’t stop thinking about my dad fixing the brick steps of our rented row house outside of Philadelphia. 

 

I keep seeing him stooped over with a bucket of cement and one of those flat tools used for spreading things. I didn’t know why he was doing it, and I asked him as much. My mom heard and said, “Just let him do it. He wants to do it.”

 

I don’t know how or when he got the cement. Did he go to the store to buy the tools he needed? I don’t remember, but he hunched over the steps- working.

 

They had come to visit me, my parents, in Pennsylvania. They must have heard the sadness in my voice. In my first go-round of grad school, I was unknowingly depressed, achingly lonely, experiencing culture shock and jarring isolation. So, they came North. I was stressed, close to finals, and raw from the pain of my first foray into adulthood. 

 

He couldn’t fix my pain – make it disappear like he could do at 7 with a double ice cream cone from Bob and Nell’s. So, he fixed the steps. I love you – he was showing me. Telling me, I’m here for you. I want you to be okay. 

Did I say thank you? Maybe not – surliness covering my gaping wounds. 

 

It’s been 4 years since he took a breath. No longer numb with acute grief, it feels shorter and longer in time. It turns out when the numbness recedes, there is much to sift through. When the business of death is complete, and there is a new normal, when the family members have messily meshed and sparred in grief, the processing, wondering, longing, regretting, laughing, reminiscing, missing- continues. 

 

He was magnanimous in all things – big voice, hearty laughter, expressive anger, and joy. A perfect man, he was not. I was often his most acute critique – maybe I still am. I think he was fearful of my sensitive nature. Scared the world would cut me – sharp and deep. 

 

The last time I saw him in person, he said, “be sweet.” I said, “no, deddy. Say, be strong.” And he did. Poetic justice feels a bit too on the nose. 

 

He fixed my steps. He came to visit. He sent me Braves memorabilia and candy cigarettes. He paid for my cars, college education, and trips to other counties. He paid my first month’s rent after I graduated college. He gave me $100 to “touch Kenny Chesney’s butt if you can.” He put together my trash can in the first home, where my name was solely on the lease. He bought me a milkshake after hearing the car he paid for crashed into another vehicle. He showed me how to rally for people, support them, take them to the airport and hospital, and buy them a birthday cake. He taught me how to engage with strangers and invite them to dinner. He gave me the tools to properly “loaf” and invite others to join. He was so good. Sometimes, the best and sometimes the worst. 

 

Seeing a parent’s humanness and being close to it is discombobulating. I’ve got so much gratitude for my dad – my deddy – as I say. 

 

My sister was most like our dad in countenance – witty, intelligent, stubborn, a little bossy. As we’ve aged, she’s now a lot like mom – introverted, gravitating toward smaller gatherings of folks and calmness. The 3 of us – my brother, sister, and I are a mix of our parents’ personalities, strengths, weaknesses, and proclivities, but, truthfully, there is no hiding that I the most overtly like our dad – extroverted, craving lots of festive gatherings with people, bent hard toward tradition, with big, open convictions, forcing communication. I am him and her and my own. 

 

He is with me. He is with us. 

His absence is felt and seen and real. Also, his zestiness is with us too. 

The ache, the longing, the gratitude, and joy live alongside one another in our souls. 

I love you, dad.