There are Things that I've Forgotten that I Loved About the Man
Today is my father's birthday. He would have been 75. This one has been really hard. I have missed him so much of late. I suppose it's all of the emotional upheaval. It feels like losing him all over again. I guess a heart is a heart no matter what causes the grief.
I like to think that our particular relationship was special. I suppose all daddies and daddy's girls want to think the same thing. All I can say in that respect is that he showed me how to be loved. How to be loved with abandon. I hold to that lesson today.
I like to think that our particular relationship was special. I suppose all daddies and daddy's girls want to think the same thing. All I can say in that respect is that he showed me how to be loved. How to be loved with abandon. I hold to that lesson today.
He taught me how to love people where they are. It seems that he was hard to love. Or maybe the other way around. It was hard to make him love. Maybe that's what made me feel special in that particular love. Something was different than it ever had been with his previous three daughters. I tell myself it was because I'm good at loving. I have to believe that right now.
I remember thinking as a child that he was so tall that he was barely under the sun and almost beside it. When he would pick me up and kick his skinny hip to rest me on, it was like flying to the moon for a second. I thought he was invincible. All kids do, don't they? That's another lesson he taught me. Even our superheroes are mortal. I learned that one entirely too young. And learned the way to tell someone that someone they love has died. The light that goes out in their eyes.
He believed in me so completely. He thought I was something else. It was fully mutual. He made me promise on his death bed that I would make something of myself. He didn't clarify what he even meant by that. That ambiguity gave me some creative license. I wonder what he'd think now. I know he'd be proud. He could never be anything else when it comes to me.
My regret is that I never got to know him as an adult. There are so many stories he'll never get to tell me and so many questions that I will never get to ask. And those are just gone.
He was a good storyteller. Someone else I've gotten to know this year tells stories in the same way. His stories almost always took a funny turn. And he'd get this troublesome expression on his face and then you knew to listen. It would be smart and funny. Almost always.
He had this kind of comforting stillness in his words. He didn't have to always talk, like so many more I love and have loved. I learned from him that silence can be comfortable. Old before I was born, forty when I came along. Already well graying. I remember a gray-haired man, always a little stiff when he first stood. Rarely still. I take all of those after him.
I remember thinking as a child that he was so tall that he was barely under the sun and almost beside it. When he would pick me up and kick his skinny hip to rest me on, it was like flying to the moon for a second. I thought he was invincible. All kids do, don't they? That's another lesson he taught me. Even our superheroes are mortal. I learned that one entirely too young. And learned the way to tell someone that someone they love has died. The light that goes out in their eyes.
He believed in me so completely. He thought I was something else. It was fully mutual. He made me promise on his death bed that I would make something of myself. He didn't clarify what he even meant by that. That ambiguity gave me some creative license. I wonder what he'd think now. I know he'd be proud. He could never be anything else when it comes to me.
My regret is that I never got to know him as an adult. There are so many stories he'll never get to tell me and so many questions that I will never get to ask. And those are just gone.
He was a good storyteller. Someone else I've gotten to know this year tells stories in the same way. His stories almost always took a funny turn. And he'd get this troublesome expression on his face and then you knew to listen. It would be smart and funny. Almost always.
He had this kind of comforting stillness in his words. He didn't have to always talk, like so many more I love and have loved. I learned from him that silence can be comfortable. Old before I was born, forty when I came along. Already well graying. I remember a gray-haired man, always a little stiff when he first stood. Rarely still. I take all of those after him.
I've struggled to write anything for days and this is no better. I don't feel like I can do him justice with my clumsy words today. And that hurts as much as missing him. Maybe the hurt of the day just can't be cut with love or words. Maybe tomorrow will improve my prose. And the ache and weight in my chest and throat.
I remember when my mother told me to stop asking so many questions, he told her that smart kids ask questions. And he always answered them if he could and he always said when he didn't know. He was brave and steadfast in his sense of self that way. Smart, good with his hands, quiet, quick as a new foal.
So, on this day, for me, for Charlie Gable, tell a story. Ask a question. Ask a hundred. Smart kids ask questions. Happy Birthday, Daddy. I miss you every day.
I remember when my mother told me to stop asking so many questions, he told her that smart kids ask questions. And he always answered them if he could and he always said when he didn't know. He was brave and steadfast in his sense of self that way. Smart, good with his hands, quiet, quick as a new foal.
So, on this day, for me, for Charlie Gable, tell a story. Ask a question. Ask a hundred. Smart kids ask questions. Happy Birthday, Daddy. I miss you every day.
Beautiful! When did your dad pass?
ReplyDelete2002. I was almost 16.
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