Although my dad had many health problems throughout his
adult life, his death at age 70 came with little warning. When he died, I learned that no matter how
old you are, you’re never ready to lose a parent. In the years since, I’ve learned that you
never stop missing the parent you lost, and you never stop thinking of things
you wish you could tell him. At first, I
saw him everywhere—in a stranger’s shuffle, in a colleague’s gray head, in the
faces of my children. I also talked
about him to anyone who would listen.
And I wrote about him: poems, journal entries, stories. Before we left town after his funeral, I took
pictures of his room, especially his little office area: desk, chair, bookcase,
file cabinet. I also gathered up a few
things of his to keep: one of the plaid short-sleeve shirts he always wore, the
red chamois shirt he’d been wearing over Christmas, a New Testament that
belonged to him and had his name scrawled inside in his distinctive handwriting, one of his pocket knives, a
pair of black leather driving gloves he’d been wearing that still held the
curve of his hands, a silver pen light he’d used for years. I also took the contents of the file
marked “Mindy” from his file cabinet; among other things, the manila folder held cards I’d made for him,
postcards I’d sent from camp, notes I’d left for him or tucked into his
suitcase, an index card with my various addresses written on it, and a green
triangle made of poster board to which I’d taped ten silver half dollars and
given to him as a Father’s Day gift once.
When I got back home, I put all of these things in a little flowered
duffle bag, along with the sympathy cards I’d received, the obituary from the
newspaper, and a poem I’d written and read at his funeral. Every once in a while during that first year,
I unzipped the bag just a little and breathed in the scent of my dad that still
clung to those shirts. In the years
since then, I haven’t opened it at all—until today. The bag was covered in dust, so I carefully
took everything out and washed the bag.
I’ll tuck everything back inside as soon as the bag is dry, and I’ll put it back under my bed. And for the
rest of the night and the rest of my life, I’ll think of the dad I had and all
the things he gave me that don’t fit in the little flowered bag: memories of
playing blocks and four-square and push-the-button; strong, abiding faith in God; an uncompromising model of honesty and integrity, security that comes from knowing someone was always in my corner; and the strength that comes from knowing I was a well-loved child. And I'll do my best to pass these things along to my own kids.
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