The first Monday in October marks the anniversary of my father’s death, over 17 years ago. The end was hard for him, and for my whole family. I know without a doubt he is in a better place. Time has healed the rawness of the wounds and the surface scabs of a daughter’s heart, but anyone who has lost someone close, knows the gaping hole that is left below the surface.
My father was a “doing” and a “fix-it” kind of father. We didn’t often relate on an extremely personal level, but he made sure my oil was changed in my car, that my tires weren’t dangerous, and would help take care of things around the house when they were broke. When I was a teenager, he would make sure my boyfriends left the house early enough, and when my mother worked 2nd shift, he tried to be the best “mother” he could, taking me to the mall, and back and forth to school functions. He could make a really wonderful breakfast, “gravy” eggs , country ham and red eye gravy, and a sweet, creamy rice that was nothing like the papery stuff I make in my rice- steamer.
In the months after his death, I remember “losing it” with my artsy, intellectual husband. Something had broken in my closet, a rod or a shelf, and I fell apart, so upset that he couldn’t “fix-it”. It didn’t take long for me to see that the problem wasn’t really the lack of my husband’s carpentry skills; I was missing my dad to do this for me. At 30 years old, it was the beginning of my seeing that ‘fixing it ’ was something I would have to do for myself.
I visit dad’s grave on occasion, though not as much as I should. I take out his memorabilia from WWII and wish I could ask him questions about it. I look no farther than my own body, to see his short feet and shapely calves at the end of my own legs. Yes, dad is still with me.
The absence of a father in my life leaves a soft spot there for old men. I collect them like dust balls. Their tales about the war, growing up in the depression, living alone… it is a kind of balm to my soul. One of my elderly friends is of Lebanese descent. He gave me a copy of a family cookbook years ago. I have learned to make a mean hummous, kibbie and taboulli. He brings me gifts of olive oil and pine nuts. Recently, I had a business lunch with a 90 year old, who still (somehow) runs his own business. His talks were mostly self-serving; he was always the hero, and always came out well in his tales. Over a mushroom pizza, I mostly sat and listened. Then, there is my former teacher at the old folks home. Talking is difficult, but he plays a mean game of checkers. Despite his affliction with Parkinson’s Disease, I never throw the game.
I am grateful for all my surrogate family. Surrogate relationships are sometimes easier and more rewarding than being the wife-daughter-mother to those of whom we are blood-related. They fill the voids left in the absence of the real thing.
They are my friends, and that is what friends, of all ages, are for.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Ah, Susan... My heartfelt wishes go out to you.
ReplyDeleteThis post really hits home. My dad is the one who does practically everything for me. Every so often he will say that I am going to have to learn to do "it," whatever "it" is, myself, and I always reply that he'll be able to do it for me. I think he has gotten to the point where he realizes his own limitations and I am the one in denial. I try to figure out how to do the things he does, but it just never seems to work out like it would if he had done it, so I end up calling him anyway.... I guess practice makes perfect.