Tomorrow, on May 19th, it will be two years since my father died. I still think of him every time a little bird comes to my window, especially if it comes at just the right time. Sometimes it tells me I am on the right track with my writing. Sometimes it’s there to gently nudge me away from playing Spider Solitaire.
photo by a.lavine, licensed-under-CC-BY-NC-ND
My father was the first one to tell me I am a good writer. I had left some English homework sitting on the dining-room table, and he had seen it. Because he was my father, I did not fully believe him when he said I wrote well. He also told me I was pretty. When I looked in the mirror as a teenager, I didn’t see any beauty there.
On the other hand, he carried the authority of being a high-school English teacher, so I couldn’t fully discount what he said. Years later, he encouraged me to keep writing poetry. That time, I listened to him, and I believed him.
The Black Sheep and the Biscuit
My father lived to be four-score years and nine. It’s appropriate to use Lincoln’s language to surround my tall and gentle father. He was the first in his family not to be racist, the first to be a feminist, the first to go to college.
He became the black sheep who left the family fold and moved north to New Jersey. His parents blamed my mother for stealing him away. They could have looked in the mirror at themselves. He wasn’t lured away; he was pushed.
My father carried a heavy load all his life. He spoke very little about his early years. Yet, he dutifully returned to family gatherings while trying to hide his fury and frustration. He did not always succeed. We still, in my family, refer to the biscuit story.
At one visit to see his parents and his much-younger brother, my father got so angry that, without saying a word, he threw a biscuit across the room. His family was astounded but still clueless as to what had caused him to do that. They were having a normal conversation.
I was not there that day. I heard about this second-hand from my family, yet I feel like I was there. It was such a characteristic response: uncontrollable anger in the body, yet with no words to express it. The story has entered the family lore. “I’m so angry I could throw a biscuit,” we say.
Sparkling Dishes
Right after he died, I wrote a letter to my father. In that letter, I imagined that I opened my front door and found him dusting my living room. He had returned with his vision intact, not legally blind as he had been when he died.
The dishes in the kitchen sink were sparkling in the dish drain, and he had the dishtowel over his shoulder as he always did. He was wearing glasses again, though they fogged up over the warm dishwater. He reminded me that, as a toddler, I had been his traveling companion on his long road trips.
He encouraged me to keep writing so that we could continue to be traveling companions. When I said goodbye to him, I told him I was happy he had his sight back. And I told him that I loved him.
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