I should mention
I realized this morning after writing my little post last night that there was more I should say about my father's passing than what I wrote. I don't know if this will make a lot of sense, but here goes nothing.
I didn't know my father. Not really. As if living in two seperate houses isn't enough of a seperation, we were living in two seperate continents. Two seperate worlds completely. They were once one, but it's so long ago I can't remember what that was like. They collided occassionally, but in general my father was very much not a part of my life.
When I was a kid I used to pretend we were close. I'd lie to kids at school. Talk about my dad's accent. Give a false impression. That I had this awesome dad who lived abroad and called me on the weekends, begging me to come and visit and stay for my summer vacation. A father who sent me gifts just because. Trinkets he'd pick up on his adventures, knowing how much I'd love them, always including a long letter full of his love. In reality my father never called me, wrote me sparatically, and the only gifts I received were on Christmas, vague gifts for the daughter he'd never know. A card signed only "love, Dad". I can only guess he never knew what else to say.
The night before our designated "Father Daughter Day" in my hometown of Colraine Northern Ireland my dad got so drunk he tore the phone out of the house and threatened to kill his father, my grandad. The next day was filled with a shell of a man, too high to function, or even hold a conversation. I left the day empty. But in true Danny fashion, the next day was filled with fun. Sober and funny, we spend the day together. Laughing, making fun of my mom, telling stories, trying to involve each other in our completely seperate lives. I left with high hopes.
Years and unanswered letters later here I sit. A woman who's led her entire life without her father being apart of it (I had a dad growing up- he was my grandpa and he raised me since I was 6- so I didn't go without), yet somehow the loss of him feels greater than anticipated. Not because he was a great man. Or a great father figure. Just a stranger to me. What makes me sad is that's all he'll ever be now. The door has officially been shut. It's a decisiveness I wasn't prepared for. But it's over now.
Before my dad died he sent me a message. Truly a message from the grave since I didn't get it until the night after he had passed. That he was proud of me, glad I was getting married... he'd gotten all my letters. Why he had to wait until it was all too late I'll never know. But at least I know he read them. Unanswered until the end, but I suppose that was a way to show his love.
So now I written the story of my father and I. Short, not so sweet and now over. There's no epilogue to death.
I didn't know my father. Not really. As if living in two seperate houses isn't enough of a seperation, we were living in two seperate continents. Two seperate worlds completely. They were once one, but it's so long ago I can't remember what that was like. They collided occassionally, but in general my father was very much not a part of my life.
When I was a kid I used to pretend we were close. I'd lie to kids at school. Talk about my dad's accent. Give a false impression. That I had this awesome dad who lived abroad and called me on the weekends, begging me to come and visit and stay for my summer vacation. A father who sent me gifts just because. Trinkets he'd pick up on his adventures, knowing how much I'd love them, always including a long letter full of his love. In reality my father never called me, wrote me sparatically, and the only gifts I received were on Christmas, vague gifts for the daughter he'd never know. A card signed only "love, Dad". I can only guess he never knew what else to say.
The night before our designated "Father Daughter Day" in my hometown of Colraine Northern Ireland my dad got so drunk he tore the phone out of the house and threatened to kill his father, my grandad. The next day was filled with a shell of a man, too high to function, or even hold a conversation. I left the day empty. But in true Danny fashion, the next day was filled with fun. Sober and funny, we spend the day together. Laughing, making fun of my mom, telling stories, trying to involve each other in our completely seperate lives. I left with high hopes.
Years and unanswered letters later here I sit. A woman who's led her entire life without her father being apart of it (I had a dad growing up- he was my grandpa and he raised me since I was 6- so I didn't go without), yet somehow the loss of him feels greater than anticipated. Not because he was a great man. Or a great father figure. Just a stranger to me. What makes me sad is that's all he'll ever be now. The door has officially been shut. It's a decisiveness I wasn't prepared for. But it's over now.
Before my dad died he sent me a message. Truly a message from the grave since I didn't get it until the night after he had passed. That he was proud of me, glad I was getting married... he'd gotten all my letters. Why he had to wait until it was all too late I'll never know. But at least I know he read them. Unanswered until the end, but I suppose that was a way to show his love.
So now I written the story of my father and I. Short, not so sweet and now over. There's no epilogue to death.