Monday, November 28, 2011

Dear Dad

Dear Dad.

Things are moving fast now.  I've been running away, trying to ignore this darkness looming ever closer, even as I hear the footfalls louder behind me.  Now I turn around, ready to face it and it's already passing me by, slipping through my fingers faster than I can grab hold.  It shouldn't be this fast, all of this life and all of this death.  I need a minute to catch my breath, to gather my thoughts, but it's all going too damn fast.

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Dear Dad.

Did I ever tell you that my favorite picture of you is one from when you were in the army?  You're sitting on the ground, so young, with a cigarette hanging out of your mouth and this cocky look on your face.  You look like you know everything.  You look like you are sure you're right.

You look like a pain in the ass.

It's my favorite.

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Dear Dad.

I will be okay.  The fire you say you see in me, it will keep going and I will keep writing and I will stay true to all of these things I believe in.  And I will be okay.

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Dear Dad.

I remember being very small and sitting in the bathroom with you, watching you shave.  I remember the smell of your neck when I would hug you.  I remember walking with you into Fenway Park for the very first time.  I remember that you can whistle louder than anyone I've ever met.  I remember that I couldn't wait to call you after First Born arrived, that it was 3 in the morning in Seattle and 6 in the morning here and I was aching and exhausted and thrilled and I couldn't wait to tell you.  I remember the look on your face when you first held him.

I remember.

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Dear Dad.

All is right between us.  There is no distance, there are no miles, there is no time lost.  There is only us now, where we find ourselves now, and that's a damned good place.

I know you would agree.

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Dear Dad.

Thank you for ordering me lasagna when I was 5 and making me try it.  That's good stuff.

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Dear Dad.

I am proud to be your daughter.

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Dear Dad.

When I was visiting when I was 15 or so and you let me go out with that boy who lived across the street (the paperboy), I'm pretty sure I lied to you and said that mom let me date.  She didn't yet.

Sorry.

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Dear Dad.

I want to tell you not to be afraid.

Except that I *am* afraid.  So, rather, I will say that I will be there, with you, even if my body is not.

I will be there.  

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Dear Dad.

Thank you.

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Dear Dad.

I love you.  


5 comments:

  1. Lovely letters. Writing always helps me get through these difficult times. Sending positive thoughts your way.

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  2. Gulp. Beautiful letters. I love sharing the tiny memories with the person who was in them. It is always so beautiful to hear how they were experienced.

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    Replies
    1. So true. My father passed away less than a month after I wrote this, so I am grateful to know he heard all of this.

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  3. I read something somewhere that the 11 most powerful words, made into the 4 most powerful sentences are the following:
    1. Please forgive me.
    2. I forgive you.
    3. Thank you.
    4. I love you.
    My mother is dying right now and there has been trouble between us...This puts it into perspective.

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    Replies
    1. I'm so sorry to hear about your mother. But I agree, they are all powerful, healing sentiments. As difficult as it was to know my father was dying, it was a gift that not everyone gets, as nothing was left unsaid.

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