A rare moment of public introspection
I don't usually publish personal thoughts here, and I wasn't going to publish this, but I'm in a mood. So if you care to, take a moment, consider this, and give your dad a hug today.
Twelve years ago today, my life changed forever. And I realized last night, lying awake, that I couldn't remember what his hugs felt like, or how he smelled. I still remember him, of course, my dark and twisted, big cuddly teddy bear of a dad. I remember after a nightmare, head on his stomach, the up and down of his breathing lulling me to sleep. I remember how he used to tell me men are scum, and I'd laugh and say that he was a man, to which he'd reply, “I'm scum too!” No clue, of course, how not true that was. How he was the best dad in the whole world. I don't know if he ever believed it, even though my sister and I told him that he was every night before we went to bed. Yes, I remember my dad. I was lucky enough to have 10 years with the most wonderful dad any kid could ask for. The kindest, sweetest, most incredible father, who always pushed me to be the best I could be, fighting with me when I didn't want to do my physical therapy anymore, telling me I could do it, I could walk like all the other kids did. The kind of father who would watch The Sound of Music with me 10 million times a week, and loved nothing more than curling up on the couch with me to watch the news, and then listening to wildly inappropriate Monty Python clips on his computer while my sister and mom were off at whatever sports practice, or sitting on the couch, listening to Beethoven, playing conductor. I think he enjoyed having a nerd for a daughter. This man, my dad, was my whole entire world, and my mom and sister and I were his, for 10 years. So why can't I remember?
Twelve years ago today, my life changed forever. And I realized last night, lying awake, that I couldn't remember what his hugs felt like, or how he smelled. I still remember him, of course, my dark and twisted, big cuddly teddy bear of a dad. I remember after a nightmare, head on his stomach, the up and down of his breathing lulling me to sleep. I remember how he used to tell me men are scum, and I'd laugh and say that he was a man, to which he'd reply, “I'm scum too!” No clue, of course, how not true that was. How he was the best dad in the whole world. I don't know if he ever believed it, even though my sister and I told him that he was every night before we went to bed. Yes, I remember my dad. I was lucky enough to have 10 years with the most wonderful dad any kid could ask for. The kindest, sweetest, most incredible father, who always pushed me to be the best I could be, fighting with me when I didn't want to do my physical therapy anymore, telling me I could do it, I could walk like all the other kids did. The kind of father who would watch The Sound of Music with me 10 million times a week, and loved nothing more than curling up on the couch with me to watch the news, and then listening to wildly inappropriate Monty Python clips on his computer while my sister and mom were off at whatever sports practice, or sitting on the couch, listening to Beethoven, playing conductor. I think he enjoyed having a nerd for a daughter. This man, my dad, was my whole entire world, and my mom and sister and I were his, for 10 years. So why can't I remember?