In Memory Of My Father

It's been 15 years, and I can still hear your laugh.  15 years, and I remember your jokes, quips that ride through my brain, one liners that pop in at the most random times.  15 years, and your influence is as strong today as the day we lost you.

I would give so much to have had you live to meet your granddaughters.  Yes, you have granddaughters.  The big one, Riley, is three and a half, and has your eyes. They're clear blue, and inquisitive, constantly questioning why, eager to understand.  She has a personality and a half- she's as self-assured a tiny person as you would ever come across.  People say she looks like me, but I see mom and I see you in her, too.  She jumps off furniture, tosses stuffed animals and dolls off furniture (remember those photos of you and Bill, throwing dummies off the roof of the Prospect Street house?  I can see her pulling something like that in about ten years).  She's athletic, smart, is starting to read (at THREE!), and I'm already going through the Metropolitan Opera picture books, so she'll know who Siegfried, Brünnhilde, and Woton are by age 5, like I did.

The little one is Ella.  She's the youngest, obviously, like you were.  So she's tough.  She wrestles with her sister, and climbs on her.  But she's also still young enough (not quite 2) to cling and wrap herself around my legs (I remember being young, Nicole sitting on one of your feet, me on the other, with our little arms wrapped around your knees, giggling as you transported us around the house).  I pick her up, and make her fly (balancing her on my big feet the way you used to balance me on yours, holding her little hands so she doesn't fall).  I try to make sure I split my time and energy equally between her and her sister, like you and mom were so good with me and Nicole.

Both girls are loud (not quite you on the side of the soccer field, but there are some serious decibels being hit).  They dance around the kitchen with me, the way you and mom used to, and sing (Riley seems, unfortunately, to have inherited your singing voice.  Ella can hit some notes, though).  I'm teaching them to cheer for the Yankees, and how to kick soccer balls. Sports are a work in progress, but Riley asked me to watch soccer the other day on the television, so I think it's working (remember all those thousands of Torpedoes soccer games and practices you shuttled me to over the years?).

I remember all too well the details of the day you died.  You opened the door just as mom was setting the salmon pancakes and couscous down on the table.  You had that wide grin, saying "Hi!" as you wiped your feet on the mat, and instantly, we forgot you were late (as usual).  You'd been working long hours at your firm, the one you opened less than three miles from our house so you could be home more often (and it worked- I don't think you missed a single important event). '

We talked about many things, the four of us laughing, joking, questioning what the heck couscous was.  I was getting ready to go back to college that weekend, Nicole was prepping for SATs and a big history project.  We'd both played soccer the weekend before, as Nic's team was competing in a few months for the state cup (they won- they lost you, and won their first title- it was a magical run, and not a dry eye on the field or at the trophy ceremony).  I was getting ready to tell you I was going back to playing- saving the surprise to be part of your 50th birthday celebration that was coming  two weeks later- the one that never happened.  

You had to rush out, to get to a basketball game (you were trying to stay in shape, approaching 50 and all).  You called us from the road, and I answered the phone.  You needed to talk to mom about Nicole's tutor for the SATs (like either of us needed that- she aced them, by the way).  The last thing I said was my usual, "Bye dad, love you."  You said you loved me too.I hung up the phone in the kitchen.  

It was the last thing I would ever hear you say.  

And I'm grateful.  Grateful to whoever called that late night cheesy radio show the year before, when I was up listening, and requested “Wind Beneath My Wings”, saying it was for her dad, and how she didn’t say she loved him enough.  Because it inspired me to do just that- tell you.  And tell mom, and Nicole, and Jeff.  To be sure to let the people in my life that matter to me KNOW that they matter.  You taught me that in leaving this world too soon- to never take it for granted, and accept that while you can’t force someone to love you, you can be kind and loving, and hopeful.  

I’m grateful, because you knew you were loved.   I’m grateful that Torpedoes gave you an award a few months before you passed, and I was the one who gave the speech, because it meant I could tell you.  I’m grateful that we were on that MSNBC show for Father’s Day in 1998, and I was able to talk about what an inspiration you were to me.  I’m grateful that you hugged me and told me your were proud of me on infinite occasions, that I always knew I was special, and smart, and beautiful, because you believed it.  

I would not be who I am without you.  I wouldn’t be who I am without losing you.  I insist on remembering every second of that drive to the hospital, every ache in that white walled room, every syllable that fell from the doctor’s lips “I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do”, because in each of those horrible moments, I was acutely aware of how loved you were and are.

You are the man who defined who I am as a person.  In losing your physical presence in my life, I gained the irreplaceable you in my heart and my mind, who is with me always.  

I gave the eulogy at your funeral, standing in front of a packed church, standing room only, and looked out across faces, soccer uniforms, men in suits and ties and jeans and flannels.  I took a breath, trying to stave off the tears that had overflowed more in the four days since you died than I ever thought possible.  And in the midst of despair, in the deepest, darkest moment of my life, I saw a ray of sun enter through the rose design of the stained glass window, and I knew that you were with me.  

It’s been 15 years, and you’re still with me.  As long as we remember you, as long as you live as legend in our stories, you are here with me and all of us that miss you every day.  The world is a better place because you lived in it.  

Good bye, daddy.  I love you.