Today is April 21, 2014. You would have been 80 years old today. You have been dead nearly six years. You had never expected to make it out of your twenties. I have snippets of memories of you from when I was age four through six. Like the time you kissed me goodnight and I inhaled the residual scents of Camels and Coors; the time you played classical music loudly in our tiny livingroom your arms waved about as if conducting; the late night visit when we worked hard at waking up my baby brother and you laughed at his sleepiness; and that morning you cooked me tortillas and fried eggs and casually asked me if I liked Tabasco sauce (no, I did not). I think I was seven when you left for good. It’s a foggy line because you were not ever really home. I don’t know when you left, I don’t know when you had ever stayed either. I only have one clear memory of you sleeping in our home one day.
I haven’t forgotten you. I think about you. I’m a little annoyed that there’s unfinished something-or-other thanks to my avoidance of you later in life. When I was really young, I wanted something from you. A hug. Recognition. A phone call. To hear your voice, your laugh, your Spanish words. I mostly wanted you to just be a father like the kind I had seen on TV. Strong, patient, loving, reliable, offering words of wisdom and such. Oh sure I have a stepfather, who’s more like a father, that fulfills much of strength, love and security I needed. But Dad, the little girl still inside me wanted you – to be near, in any way.
You have made me realize that parents aren’t perfect. They are not Leave-It-To-Beaver or Father-Knows-Best types. You made me realize I had to accept my own unreasonable expectations as a parent. However, kids don’t understand that. That will take time for them to see we are just like them in many ways. You made me realize to try harder, just for my own children’s sake, to show them love at every possible corner. Because I knew what it was like when one’s parent was not there, not showering love. You made me realize what a blessing it was to read to my girls, or to watch my little girl’s faces as they slept. Even now, they are teens, and I am amazed by them. Dad, you didn’t see me as a teen. By then too much hurt and likely guilt had become an unclimbable mountain.
It wasn’t until I had children in my thirties that I realized the bigness of love. Sometimes I reminded myself that you were not ready to forgive yourself – and that is why we rarely saw each other or talked to each other. But that bigness of love, it saved me in so many ways. It healed most of the wounds. I was usually joyful and thankful to have my husband and children. I would think, “This is the golden ticket!”
You had misplaced your golden ticket. I am sorry for that. And I hope, that where you are now, you have found it and are treasuring it. I sort of believe you have found that ticket, because Dad, this morning I woke up smiling and the first thing I noticed was a faint smell of Camels and Coors.