''It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.'' - Anne Sexton
It was four years ago today that I saw my father for the last time. I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it’s been 2,102,400 minutes since my eyes took what was to be that final look. He took flight two days later back to heaven. The reality of it hit me last night, as if it were 2009 once again, and I stepped outside and looked up in the night’s sky for his star – the one that I think is him, while I had a good cry.
It doesn’t get any easier – him being in heaven and me being here. I bear up under it most days — cope with what I know I can’t change, and live my life normally – productively, but it’s not alright that he’s gone. It never will be. For those of you who have lost a parent, a spouse, a sibling, a child, a friend, you know what I’m saying. I know it’s part of life: we’re born; we live; we die. Still, the dying part sucks! Well, for those left behind anyway...
I miss him. I knew that would be the case, but, somehow, when people are still here with you, you don’t quite grasp how much you’ll miss them until they’re REALLY gone. I miss his hug. In the latter years of his life, he’s the one who hugged a little longer-held on for just a second more for good measure. I miss being called “Sug”. {short for Sugar} No one ever called me that except for my father.
The last time I saw him, I pressed my cheek against the quilt that covered his chest and spread my arms around him. I let my tears bathe that spot where I rested against him, because I knew once I left, I would never see him again in this lifetime. I closed my eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart beat: bum*bum; bum*bum; bum*bum....within those beats, I heard his voice clear as a bell telling me final thoughts: love you~bum*bum, be good~bum*bum, take care~bum*bum...and, I thought back on all the years that he’d raised me, and I’d raised him, because it is a reciprocal relationship in my opinion – that between a parent and their child. I think children raise their parents every bit as much as parents raise their children—in different ways, mind you, but we mutually teach the other things that ONLY we can teach. I know I taught my father things. He told me that I did. I take as much pride in that as I do in the things that he taught me. He, like my mother, was a good teacher. The fact that I live by the golden rule and strive to be a thoughtful and caring human being is testament to that fact.
When I was a little girl, he use to listen to my prayers at night before I went to sleep, and he made certain that no monsters were lurking in the closet of my bedroom, before he turned out the lights. I remember him running behind my bicycle as I moved from training wheels to just a two-wheeler, which was a BIG deal moment in the life of a kid.
“Promise you won’t let go!” I yelled to him as I peddled hard.
“I won’t let go, until I know you can do it!” he called back.
“No!” I realized his qualifier and felt a panic take hold. “Don’t let go at all!”
And, then I’d begin to wobble on my bike.
“Go on, Sug!” he’d call, running behind me holding on to the seat. “You can do it!”
And, even when he let go, he still ran behind me, so I wouldn’t get scared and sabotage myself into falling off and down.
After all was said and done, and I had my bike back in the garage, I unleashed my displeasure over how I felt when I realized that he’d not kept his promise and let go. I started to cry over the betrayal.
“You tricked me!” I pouted.
“I did not!” he exclaimed. “I was with you the entire time!”
“You let go!” I pouted more.
“That’s because I knew you could do it on your own,” he said. “But, I stayed right behind you to make sure you wouldn’t fall.”
“You promised you wouldn’t let go!” my pout turned into a frown.
“I promised I wouldn’t let go until I knew you could do it by yourself,” he corrected. “And, I didn’t! I stayed right behind you the entire time even after I let go,” he reminded.
I blinked, letting what he said register.
“You’re never going to learn to do things for yourself unless you try to do them on your own, Sug!” he said, hugging me. “But, I’ll never let you try something unless I know you can do it! You didn’t need me to hold onto the bike anymore. You just needed to know I’d be there to catch you if you fell, and I was.”
Life lesson. Big one.
We had lots of moments like that over the course of my life. It’s what a parent does: teaches their child to stand on their own two feet, while assuring them that they’re close by to catch them if they fall–to be there if they need a hand. He was. He always was.
So many thoughts–memories ran through my mind as I laid my head against his chest on that early August morning four years ago, I squeezed his hand as I remembered my wedding day and waiting in the vestibule of the church for him to walk me down the aisle.
I remember he cleared his throat and asked if I was ready.
I smiled and nodded.
He looked at me differently in that moment, much the way he’d looked at me when I’d gotten off the airplane the previous October – engaged. I was no longer just his daughter. I was another man’s intended wife. It was the first time I saw him hold me in different light.
Softly, he said. “Almost time for me to give you away.”
I looked at him when he said it. He held my gaze. I think both of our eyes misted a little.
“I’ll always be your daughter, Daddy,” I clarified.
He nodded. “That’s right,” he agreed. “But, it’s time to let you go. You’ll understand that some day.”
I think in that moment he was referring to the children that we both thought Tom and I would successfully have and raise one day. Unfortunately, that dream didn’t work out for us. But, as I rested my head against my father’s chest on that August morning and recalled that conversation, I understood his meaning.
I buried my face into the quilt as more tears came, nodding my understanding as I squeezed his hand.
I knew it was time to let him go. I didn’t want to. It was a difficult reality to accept that his time was at hand.
It was strange, but in that moment, I could swear that I heard him whisper to me, “I’ll always be your Daddy, but it’s time to let me go.”
It’s hard, sometimes, being a big girl — putting on those pants and pulling them up! The truth plain and simple is that it doesn’t matter how old you get when it relates to your parents. There is a part of you inside who is always that panicky, little girl calling to her father not to let go as he ran behind you when you learned to ride your bike. Always.
The last time I looked at my father, I studied his face for a good, long time. I wanted to memorize every detail of it. When you know it’s going to be a long time before you see someone again, I think it’s something instinctual that your heart and mind do: preserve the details. He looked peaceful. I remember that, and it was a comfort as I bent down to give him a “I’ll see you another time...” kiss. I scratched his beard and told him I loved him, because the older I get, the more I realize that you can never say that too much or too often, and I thanked him one final time for every thing. Every. Little. Thing. I was grateful for the father that God had given me — with all of his faults and imperfections, he had been a blessing to me for all of my life. I wanted him to hear me say it one last time.
It’s odd that through Daddy’s death, a Jackson Browne song became our song - his and mine, but it did. Those of you who have read my blog know how it came to be. If you don’t know the story, go back and read “A Joyful Sound”. In any event, on the night that my father went to heaven, I was in the audience as Jackson Browne sang a song that I had told my husband would let me know that Daddy had reached his final destination and was safe and sound where he belonged. The song selection had been a longshot, but I believe in miracles, and I have faith bigger than a mustard seed. And, so it was that it came to be that on the night my father died, Jackson Browne played “For a Dancer” to let me know that my father was safely back with God. I offer it now in loving memory:
Always and forever, it remains a joyful sound...
