in memory of my father
Not an hour goes by that I don't contemplate picking up the phone and calling my father to find out how he's doing or tell him what's new and exciting with me because since I have been married and lived nearly 3000 miles away from him, it had become a routine thing. Of course, his number isn't my phone anymore but I had it memorised and could recite it forward, backwards and in every direction you could think of. Even grown up girls need their daddies to lean on and talk to. Mothers are there for you to tell your deepest darkest secrets to but daddies are the ones who tell their little girls just how perfect they are. My father would have given me the entire universe, boxed with shiny paper and a large satin bow on the top of he could, all in pink because it's my favourite color and he knew it. I'd never have to beg or plead. He'd find a way to make it all mine and I'd never forget it.
My dad would be the first to tell you that he's not perfect. In fact, he knew he was far from it and I won't glorify him as such here. But there's eternally something redeeming about the man who gave me life, even in his most fragile moments. I am not saying weak like after he got sick but more to the point that everyone has an Achilles heel. I remember when I was very young, nights that seemed endless, waiting for him to pick me up while my sister and I sat there in our prettiest dresses as if we could buy his affections in pastels and lace, dreaming of the dinners we'd have, the laughs we'd share, the hugs and kisses that would wrap themselves around our tiny bodies and sweep us into heaven until the next time we'd see him. Sadly, we'd wait until my mom would tuck us into bed and tell us maybe next time. I have more than enough of my dad's broken promises to bury me in my own angst but I have never dwelled on them.
Working past the sad memories, even deep down inside, when I hated him more than I could find the words to describe and want to throw the entire relationship on to the streets, I put him on a pedestal. Perhaps I imagined the sunlight through hair the same color as mine like a halo he didn't deserve but that shone about his face like the angel I'd made him out to be in my head. I wonder if he knew how I cried for days after just a weekend visit, barely able to pull myself away from his arms when it was time to return to harsh reality of divorced parents. I never saw it as unfair to have my parents apart, I envisioned it as an opportunity to spend my time wisely and it taught me how to make the most of my relationships.
It wasn't all bad though. My daddy made up for lost time in the moments we shared in my adult years, relishing the time we spent like children who had never grown up. No, we never grew up. Ultimately my father was a little boy in an adult's body, complete with grown up addictions to alcohol, drugs and cigarettes that plagued him most of his life and would certainly contribute to his death. And even though I knew they were bad for him, I enabled him with my constant adoration but I have no regrets. Some people might think to ask why and looking back, I couldn't answer that. Then again, ask any of my father's friends and acquaintances what his favourite thing in the world was and he would most definitely tell you that it was his daughter Regina and he showed me every chance he got. From the times we'd nearly be kicked out of the grocery store for hopping into those uncomfortable metal shopping carts and surfing down the long slick aisles, completely forgetting why we even there to begin with to the times we'd sit on Sunday afternoons, eating my dad's special recipe nachos, curled up on his large bed in our pajamas, propped up in front of layers of pillows watching videos. There was nothing that could tear us apart.
Except cancer. Cancer didn't rob me of my father. It blatantly stole my heart from my chest, leaving me with a gaping wound I fight every day to patch with mindless distractions and numbing busy work. The last time I saw my daddy he hugged me in his frail arms. Here was a former Marine seargent weighing just over 100 pounds, bogged down with lungs that were rady to collapse under pressure and sad dicoloured skin. It was an embrace that should have been tighter and as my tears danced over his cheek and down his neck, he whispered as strongly and bravely as he could, "I hope I'll see you again," and I sobbed back, my voice shaky and probably as frail as the hug, "You will, Daddy. I promise you will." And at the time, maybe I thought I really would see him before he died and I don't even know why those words spilled from my mouth. Maybe I thought I was giving him hope or maybe it was an unsettling lie but I'll never know for sure. Speculation is a strange thing, somewhat blinding in its misguidance towards the light. And it's funny because I'll see my father again: in my memories, in heaven or my dreams.
I think of all the things he gave me. He lent me his courage, fears, a strange sense of humor that only a daughter could love. He gave me his tall thin figure and love of music. He gave me his lack of perfection and I will always revel in it. I'll always be my father's daughter. I'll always be a daddy's girl and even when he didn't deserve it, he'll always be that man I had on a pedestal for as long as I can remember. And in my head I can still hear him call me Weasel and his stupid jokes and the uproarious laughter that followed. 'HIya Wease," he'd say with a smile so bright I could feel its rays through my phone. I'd give the world just to hear those words from him again. And it's all matter of fact... of all those things, what I will cherish most is the dream that he is something he would never be because in the end, he'll always be my daddy.
I love you, Daddy.
Not a second goes by that I don't miss you and no one can ever replace you in my heart.
May your heart, body and soul sing in the heavens for eternity.
Russell Paull H.
June 12, 1953 - June 4, 2007
My dad would be the first to tell you that he's not perfect. In fact, he knew he was far from it and I won't glorify him as such here. But there's eternally something redeeming about the man who gave me life, even in his most fragile moments. I am not saying weak like after he got sick but more to the point that everyone has an Achilles heel. I remember when I was very young, nights that seemed endless, waiting for him to pick me up while my sister and I sat there in our prettiest dresses as if we could buy his affections in pastels and lace, dreaming of the dinners we'd have, the laughs we'd share, the hugs and kisses that would wrap themselves around our tiny bodies and sweep us into heaven until the next time we'd see him. Sadly, we'd wait until my mom would tuck us into bed and tell us maybe next time. I have more than enough of my dad's broken promises to bury me in my own angst but I have never dwelled on them.
Working past the sad memories, even deep down inside, when I hated him more than I could find the words to describe and want to throw the entire relationship on to the streets, I put him on a pedestal. Perhaps I imagined the sunlight through hair the same color as mine like a halo he didn't deserve but that shone about his face like the angel I'd made him out to be in my head. I wonder if he knew how I cried for days after just a weekend visit, barely able to pull myself away from his arms when it was time to return to harsh reality of divorced parents. I never saw it as unfair to have my parents apart, I envisioned it as an opportunity to spend my time wisely and it taught me how to make the most of my relationships.
It wasn't all bad though. My daddy made up for lost time in the moments we shared in my adult years, relishing the time we spent like children who had never grown up. No, we never grew up. Ultimately my father was a little boy in an adult's body, complete with grown up addictions to alcohol, drugs and cigarettes that plagued him most of his life and would certainly contribute to his death. And even though I knew they were bad for him, I enabled him with my constant adoration but I have no regrets. Some people might think to ask why and looking back, I couldn't answer that. Then again, ask any of my father's friends and acquaintances what his favourite thing in the world was and he would most definitely tell you that it was his daughter Regina and he showed me every chance he got. From the times we'd nearly be kicked out of the grocery store for hopping into those uncomfortable metal shopping carts and surfing down the long slick aisles, completely forgetting why we even there to begin with to the times we'd sit on Sunday afternoons, eating my dad's special recipe nachos, curled up on his large bed in our pajamas, propped up in front of layers of pillows watching videos. There was nothing that could tear us apart.
Except cancer. Cancer didn't rob me of my father. It blatantly stole my heart from my chest, leaving me with a gaping wound I fight every day to patch with mindless distractions and numbing busy work. The last time I saw my daddy he hugged me in his frail arms. Here was a former Marine seargent weighing just over 100 pounds, bogged down with lungs that were rady to collapse under pressure and sad dicoloured skin. It was an embrace that should have been tighter and as my tears danced over his cheek and down his neck, he whispered as strongly and bravely as he could, "I hope I'll see you again," and I sobbed back, my voice shaky and probably as frail as the hug, "You will, Daddy. I promise you will." And at the time, maybe I thought I really would see him before he died and I don't even know why those words spilled from my mouth. Maybe I thought I was giving him hope or maybe it was an unsettling lie but I'll never know for sure. Speculation is a strange thing, somewhat blinding in its misguidance towards the light. And it's funny because I'll see my father again: in my memories, in heaven or my dreams.
I think of all the things he gave me. He lent me his courage, fears, a strange sense of humor that only a daughter could love. He gave me his tall thin figure and love of music. He gave me his lack of perfection and I will always revel in it. I'll always be my father's daughter. I'll always be a daddy's girl and even when he didn't deserve it, he'll always be that man I had on a pedestal for as long as I can remember. And in my head I can still hear him call me Weasel and his stupid jokes and the uproarious laughter that followed. 'HIya Wease," he'd say with a smile so bright I could feel its rays through my phone. I'd give the world just to hear those words from him again. And it's all matter of fact... of all those things, what I will cherish most is the dream that he is something he would never be because in the end, he'll always be my daddy.
I love you, Daddy.
Not a second goes by that I don't miss you and no one can ever replace you in my heart.
May your heart, body and soul sing in the heavens for eternity.
Russell Paull H.
June 12, 1953 - June 4, 2007