Today is my father's birthday and if he were alive to celebrate, we’d be figuring out how to place colorful candles atop his cake, a cake he wouldn't eat. But he died in 1987, freed from his body on July 4th, a few months after his 62st birthday.
I’m certain Dad would not have chosen to succumb to a debilitating massive stroke at 51, but I do know he never wanted to be “old.” And something about him was youthful, in touch with his inner child. His traits comprised of high energy, fiery, bold, and he was full of surprises and excitement.
We started out with a love affair that grew into a ouchy relationship by the time I was a teen. He loved me, and I felt it; but in my mind, I never measured up. I always thought I wasn’t practical enough, didn't excel in math as he expected, wasn't as proficient in languages as he was, didn't play the piano with finesse and basically was not good enough to please him.
I often wonder how my father would critique his only daughter today–would be proud of me or not? Would he see my persistence as a reflection of his persistence. For his part, Dad was successful and he earned it, a born leader, confident and competitive he always had a goal, and the drive and determination to see it through. He never worked for anyone but himself, took risks and wanted to win to prove something to the world, with a sense of fair play- he wasn't interested in envy, deceit or cheating. No time spent frustrated, moping, just go, go, go.
I’m certain Dad would not have chosen to succumb to a debilitating massive stroke at 51, but I do know he never wanted to be “old.” And something about him was youthful, in touch with his inner child. His traits comprised of high energy, fiery, bold, and he was full of surprises and excitement.
We started out with a love affair that grew into a ouchy relationship by the time I was a teen. He loved me, and I felt it; but in my mind, I never measured up. I always thought I wasn’t practical enough, didn't excel in math as he expected, wasn't as proficient in languages as he was, didn't play the piano with finesse and basically was not good enough to please him.
I often wonder how my father would critique his only daughter today–would be proud of me or not? Would he see my persistence as a reflection of his persistence. For his part, Dad was successful and he earned it, a born leader, confident and competitive he always had a goal, and the drive and determination to see it through. He never worked for anyone but himself, took risks and wanted to win to prove something to the world, with a sense of fair play- he wasn't interested in envy, deceit or cheating. No time spent frustrated, moping, just go, go, go.
Today I realize I know very little about what he was thinking or feeling, I never asked him what was in his head before he got sick because he was always so busy. Maybe he intuited his time was short and sickness would be long so he tried to do as much as he could.
As he surely reads my words from his special balcony seat, I can almost hear him asking, “What's happening with your writing?”
“You think?” he repeats. The tone sharp, but he would smile. His gray eyes twinkle confirming that he is kidding.
“Writers embellish,” he says. He tosses a hand upward, as if to fling my apology away. “That’s what I tell the angles here.”
He had to have conflict, drama. And of course, he gives the orders.
“What kind of author would my daughter be, if the book didn't have sadness to contrast joy and it would be blah, with no fights.”
“Whew, I’m glad to hear that,” I add. “I’ve been worried about your reaction. By the way, you look wonderful as always,” I say.
“Whew, I’m glad to hear that,” I add. “I’ve been worried about your reaction. By the way, you look wonderful as always,” I say.
I'm telling the truth. In all the 62 years of his life, I doubt if he had a less than polished minute. Impeccably groomed, tall and slender, even when he lay in the hospital, up to a few days before he drew his last breath, he remained one of the handsomest men I had ever seen.
I like to imagine that wherever he is, all the good deeds and caring for others that he demonstrated gives him a pay-back in either a healthy life or a sunny existence. And that he holds onto his good looks and the child in him.
First on a lighter note: I was speaking to dog walking friend yesterday and I said" march in like lion out like a lamb". To my surprise they had never heard this before.
ReplyDeleteYou're very brave to share your lingering grief. I also have a lingering period of grief that will never leave me. I'm not sure I could put pen to paper or finger to keyboard. As it is now, doesn't have the same ring to it. To share my grief with anyone.