I Miss My Daddy

Maybe it’s that I’ve had two surgeries in three weeks and my carefully crafted “soft armor” slipped. Maybe it’s simply that now and then a little arrow of loss targets a heart and slips through to connect. Maybe it’s the lie perched on a tongue that says “I’m fine,” when “fine” is the least common denominator at that particular moment.

Today, while looking for a photograph in my archives, this one fills the screen from a location I didn’t remember it being placed, and makes me cry. One instant I’ve taken note of a mirror smooth river, crisp air and glorious mountains, the next I’m smoothing away tears. How does that happen? Instant transport from here to then. I miss my daddy. This daddy.

It was early Thanksgiving morning I got the call that Dad had died. I knew the news was imminent, he’d suffered a serious stroke. My husband asked, “What do you want to do? We could stay home.”

Our plans for the day were to head to the Russian River and be thankful with friends, to hike, dine together, make music, and connect with a group of people we care about.

I wandered out to our patio, and sat in the shaded swing. Star jasmine scented the air mingled with citrus, ripening plums, and myriad flowers that reminded me of Kauai as winter approached.

I queried my heart. It was a nuanced tableau softened by time, similar to tapestries I’d seen in Seville, Spain, or Cordoba, where history is woven. Across the expanse were scenes; one like the photo above – a child’s joyful heart, a father’s delight. Snippets like thought balloons danced above ground; a little girl and her rabbit, me bareback astride Mengustu (my horse) arms thrown wide, knees guiding him to jump that fence, mule train exploration, ancient ruins, the first landing on our newly approved African airstrip with Dad’s and my arms outstretched overhead in a victory dance. But at the base of these pictorial fragments, a dark ribbon swirled in and around those images. Physical abuse. Sexual abuse. Emotional and spiritual abuse. My father, my enemy. The man I had engaged in warfare to secure the safety of my children, the revocation of grandparental rights (his and my mothers) – and won.

Winning was critical, but was accompanied, necessarily, by loss. Loss pertaining to him I had sustained piece by piece over the course of my lifetime. Grief I had waded through off and on for decades. I am grateful forgiveness isn’t measured by reconciliation, for my parents were dangerous to me and mine.

My overriding sense, that Thanksgiving Day a decade ago in my peaceful garden, was relief. Then an immediate need for connection hit me swift and strong. “Let’s go,” I said to John, with all manner of provisos: “Please don’t mention dad’s death to people. I don’t want condolences. And since no one knows of my relationship, or the lack thereof, with my father, I don’t want to pretend or explain. Let’s leave the gathering when I need to. If I don’t think I can pull off performing (I’m a singer), I’ll signal and you can play a piano solo instead.”

A human sponge, their hugs reached deeper, laughter lifted pain, and sunlight – filtered through the giant redwoods – lit a path to the river lazing along toward the sea. Beauty formed a hammock for my soul that day and instead of giving, I received.

Today when I saw this picture, the little girl in me cried, “I want.” I didn’t intend to lean into my longing, it happened in a split second. When I looked out at the river with the pleasure beauty brings, I was content. But in the nanosecond it took to flick my eyes back to the screen and see dad and me, I wanted what that little girl had, if only for a moment. Love me enough. Even today, knowing better, I wondered why I (or any of my siblings) couldn’t have been enough.

There are millions on this planet who have lost parents, whether in war, by accident, by abandonment, death, or like me, removal by design. We adjust, move on, create fulfilling lives, love and are loved. It’s a testament to worthy hearts.

I know people who can find a picture like this and pick up the phone to connect with a father who still laughs in delight at his daughter, who enfolds her in a hug when he senses her need for comfort, who reminds her of her beauty inside and out when weariness blurs her own cognizance, and who says, “I remember. I’d come home from work worn out, and there you were. Such a cute little bundle of love. I am one lucky Dad.”

And she is one very lucky woman.