Our Father

Who art in Heaven, presumably.  Today marks the seventh anniversary of my Dad's death.

What an amazing amount of water over the dam since then. I doubt he'd recognize my life. I wonder what would have been had he never gotten sick, never died.

Not six months after he passed, I had told Lars I wanted to end our marriage. We did not have what other couples had. We could not finish each other's sentences. No one would describe us as a pair of old shoes. There was no easiness between us; we were not each other's best friend.  We were adversaries on most days, and our children deserved happier parents. Hell, we deserved to be happier parents.

I am sure Dad would have found it hard to sit on the sidelines and watch the torture Lars put me through. Threatening to take my money, our children and our house from me. And darn near getting away with it.  I wonder if, in his twisted need to be in my Dad's good graces if Lars would have been a better sport. Or maybe would have feared what lengths my Dad would go to to make sure none of that happened. Perhaps our departure from each other's lives would have been more graceful with an audience like my Dad just a few blocks away.

My children were so young when Dad died.  Just 6 and 7 years old. And he'd been sick since Hil was a new born.  I wonder what he'd think if he saw them now. I wonder what they'd think.  I sometimes feel like they've missed out on some vital childhood experience - all of their grandparents are divorced from one another. Everyone lived plane rides away except for Dad. And the grandmothers both married new grandfathers somewhere along the way.  It has hardly been The Waltons.  They have no idea what it is like to spend Sundays at Grandmom's with a slew of cousins and to learn recipes in their grandmothers' kitchens or go fishing and learn how to bait and cast with their grandfathers.

He'd have made a big difference in Pat's life for sure, with his knowledge of everything manly, his mission to make sure no one had to go through life throwing like a girl, his patience teaching golf, and his love for yard work.

And how he'd adore Hil. Her delicate, pale prettiness. Her athleticism and her girliness. Her kindness and her sense of humor that exactly would match his as it does mine. He'd be so delighted by her company. 

And what changes in my life! I have moved on in so many ways. From the horror that was Lars onto the initial sweetness and tenderness that was J. to the ultimate craziness that was J.  to dodging the bullet that was J.  There too, I wonder if J.'s behavior would have deteriorated so much if my Dad were there to object.  I wonder if I would have listened to Dad that time, for surely he would have asked me to reconsider my choices.  I'd not listened when he was sure that Lars was a mistake. I wonder if he'd be pleased about Scott. He had his reservations when he'd first met him. Of course, he would have raked John Kennedy Jr. over the proverbial coals. I was 15.

He'd marvel at the jobs I've had, the career I've made for myself. He'd be shocked that I've learned to mow the lawn, use the snow blower, cut hedges with power tools, do small repairs myself. Not to mention manage my money, negotiate a contract, close on a mortgage, and figure out what day the trash goes out in my neighborhood. That I can kill a bug or get rid of a dead mouse without having to sell the house.

And my friends. He always had his favorites and he'd no doubt have a few more.  I do have the luxury of some outstanding friendships. Something he modeled for us as children. Even my mother, who was more often at war with him than not would tell you that Dad had the nicest friends and most wonderful friendships. Even she couldn't take that from him.

And the cats. How he'd laugh at them. And torture them with string and other cat madness. Trinket would no doubt snub him, but secretly adore him and wait for him in the window.

And I know, sure as I know my own name, that he has not missed out on these things. We may be missing out on a life with him in it, but he has been as constant a presence as he would have been were he alive. I feel him in every moment of triumph or of joy. At every baseball game and chorus concert. I know he is at my side through every trial and heartbreak, watching over me, cheering for me, tucking me in, holding me tightly when I most need it. When I am feeling most small and lonely, it is his hand that holds mine, his ring that I wear (on my thumb because his hands were enormous!)

Dad, today we mark your passing, but in my heart I am celebrating your life and the many ways you shaped my own.  Forever in my heart, Dad. You were a one of a kind.