| 6-19-08 3:00PM: Soozie said...
She missed her father more than ever now. Told herself he had lived a long life and she should feel grateful... not robbed of more time with him. Since he was gone she hadn't felt the same... his absence left her feeling like she was back on that tightrope walk, the one she thought she'd left behind when she was in her twenties, passed through her thirties, entered her forties. But she'd made her life choices and that led to this imbalance... fragility... uncertainty. She was strong, determined, optimistic, but sometimes that sensation would creep up... the tightrope, I can fall she'd think, she knew. And there's no net anymore. It's just me.
How can it be she thought? As she lined up the yellow, age worn postcards and stared into the black and white photos, looking for clues, for some kind of anchor, some sense of security. That feeling she had taken for granted, that having a big solid family used to mean, that she'd always have a home to go to, a bed to lie down in, a pillow under her head. And he was always there, when she needed his advice on a car repair, a hug, help with a crossword puzzle, a loan, his wisdom, his compassion. And she for him, when he was old and frightened and ill, in the middle of the night, he'd call to talk or to ask her to come, she'd throw on some clothes, go to him.
When she was a little girl and her youngest sister was a toddler she would take her baby sister with her, under the diningroom table. They'd hide from Mommy's yelling... from sisters fighting with one another. It's me, you and Daddy, she'd say to the baby. We're the good ones. We're the bops. Those other sisters and Mommy? They're the beeps. It's us against them she'd tell her, we're the nice ones.
Her dad was a soft man, gentle, kind but sometimes firm with his daughters, and sometimes stubborn though very rarely angry. He'd sing to them, tell jokes, rocked each of them to sleep when they were babies. Even as they were older children, each night they'd all call for him... Daddy, come scratch my back! No, Daddy, come here, scratch my back. No, I want Daddy! He'd travel from room to room, girl to girl, saying a goodnight prayer and scratching her back a bit before a kiss on the head and onto the next of his children.
She thought she turned out alot like him. They both loved women, both loved babies, children, animals. She liked to think of herself as having his gentle soul. He taught her to take care of her pets with love and respect and compassion. You have to feed them first, make sure they have fresh water, before taking care of yourself he would say. They can't help themselves, they rely on you.
She recalled an afternoon where they were in the garage working together on his car. She had graduated from being the little tomboy holding the light for him to actually doing the work while he guided her. He was, when she was only in her twenties, already too old to climb under the car. They were working on a more difficult repair than their standard tandem oil change, where he used her hands, her arms to perform the tasks and she relied on his mind, his skill to get it done.
Now he handed her the tools, held the light, instead of the other way around. She couldn't remember what they were doing but she had accomplished some task, something he wasn't certain she could do and she was leaning over the engine, feeling that rush of success when he'd exclaimed, "atta boy!". He immediately stammered, "atta girl, a girl...". But she was grinning up at him... felt it was a compliment. In that moment she thought of herself fondly as the half and half, his favorite daughter and the almost son he didn't have.
Late in his life he'd given her a pile of his treasures. Photos, postcards, documents, a beer ration card from his time in the service, in the second world war. She promised to compile them into a scrapbook. "When are you going to finish that scrapbook?" he'd ask, teasing her. "You gonna wait until I'm dead?" No, Daddy. But she had... waited... and he was gone now.
She sorted through the pile again, his discharge papers, the list medals he'd been awarded. He said he'd had the medals at one time but they were long gone. She shifted through the pile of photos. How handsome he'd looked then and strong... in Japan, in Texas, in Korea. She loved hearing his stories and how they changed as she'd gotten older... more detailed, darker, more risque, his life as a soldier in WWII. "Did I ever tell you about the short arm check?"
She had felt proud of his stance against Bush, the war, any war. He would say... someone who hasn't experienced war should not have the power to send young people into a war. He was raised strictly religious, a conservative, but just by living long enough, through his life experiences, he had arrived there, a liberal, a progressive. He accepted her for who she was, of all of his daughters, to the end, she; the radical, the lesbian, the one who challenged his beloved wife more than any of the other children, was still his favorite.
When he lay dying, she left his hospital room to talk with the doctor. When she came back in, all of her sisters were there, sitting around his bed. We're all here and he was asking for YOU they said.. almost accusingly, but lovingly too. She smiled and climbed onto the bed next to him.
What are you doing? one of the sisters asked. I'm snuggling my daddy she said. She kissed his head and whispered in his ear, her half of their secret exchange, "MY Daddy".. with all of the possessiveness a kid in that big family could muster up. "MY Baby." he replied, "My baby." He died in the early hours of the next morning, slowly, peacefully, his hand in hers. Nothing felt the same now. Nothing was the same.
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