Fragmented Memories

The wetness of the air after a rainstorm. The darkness of the sky proving that there is more to come. The sound of the water as it hit the pavement. The sickening scent of my grandmother’s perfume. The misplacement among adults. The continuous flow of tears. How else should you remember your father’s funeral?

I was nine-years-old and it was Thanksgiving Day, my father’s favorite holiday (a day that has seemed to be ruined and the idea of turkey makes me ill yet my mother insists on making it each year as it has become a “tradition”). I was supposed to be at home watching the Macy’s Day Parade while my father cooked a turkey (a task that he took very seriously arising before the sun to start on preparations) and I waited anxiously for Santa Clause to make his appearance at the parade indicating that the holiday season was under way. Instead, the whole day was surrounded in black: black clothing, black sky, black cars. There was no homemade turkey and no man in a red suit indicating Christmas was soon.

I dressed that morning in a blur. I am not sure who dressed me or what I wore, but I remember this being the first occasion that I didn’t look like a doll. I always wore items that were pink or frilly. That day I wore a black dress, black tights and black shoes. I am sure that my grandmother was involved but I can’t seem to place a face to the figure that assisted me that morning. Maybe it was mom. Images of my mother from that day are few and far between. I know my mother was there, at least physically. However, I remember her voice or rather the lack of it. The continuous sobbing and pleading and of course the repetitious question: “Why Buddy?” Finally there was something that I could process. My father’s nickname. Why what? What was she questioning him for? He wasn’t there. Didn’t she realize that?

I understood that he had died. I knew what death meant. I had just recovered from accidently killing my hamster by leaving him in his plastic ball outside. That could not have possibly happened to my dad, right? At the time I didn’t understand what “suicide” meant. The psychologist that followed me around for the days leading up to the funeral wouldn’t explain. Is that a disease? Can I catch that like the chicken pox? After just having spent my entire summer vacation itching and covered in pink lotion, I didn’t want to risk anything that would keep me from having fun during my Christmas break that was just weeks away (I have since learned after years of therapy that suicide is not contagious or hereditary despite what scientists may claim).

I sat in a big black car with my mother, her mother as well as my father’s parents. My whole family could fit in this thing! I was bored being the only child present but the car was entertaining (or would have been if I was in it by myself). I was told not to touch the multiple buttons that called my name. I itched with rebellion to attack the small buttons and see what would happen. Just one wouldn’t hurt anything right? There were glass bottles filled with liquid. Hum…I wonder what that is? A man opened the door to the black car. His face is unrecognizable. I remember being disappointed that it was raining and that we would have to be inside. I was still upset that I couldn’t touch the buttons. Looking out the dark tinted windows I saw row after row of white plaques filled the dying grass. Where are we?

I was told that we were there to “say good-bye to daddy”. Where is his body? Why can’t I see him? When we buried my hamster in the flower garden, we put him in a little box. Shouldn’t daddy be in a box too? He wasn’t there. There was a table with a fancy vase. Where were the flowers? The vase seemed out of place. There was a picture of my father sitting next to the vase. In the picture he is smiling. He never smiled. As an adult I learned that the only time he did smile was when he was holding me, I have pictures as my evidence. Pictures of my father and me are limited but precious to me.

I was told to sit in the chair and wait. “Don’t go anywhere. Don’t touch anything”. For a nine year old that is like asking her to not touch the new Barbie sitting on her bed out of the box. Impossible! Remember the buttons in the car?

The sea of black arrived. The wetness was overpowering from not only the rain but also the tears. I saw so many familiar faces but was not sure why they were here. Why were any of us here? They were all adults and as each car arrived I waited patiently for another child to emerge. It never happened.

The day was cold. I was cold. Not from the rain or the crisp fall air, but from the day. I felt nothing. I was not sad over the loss. I never cried. I hardly spoke. I just sat. This added to my mother’s concern and panic, and she still tells me that I need to deal with that day. My exterior showed nothing. My interior showed nothing. I was blank. “He can’t hurt us anymore”, I told my mother as we sat listening to the man in the military uniform talk about my father. I would never have to worry again about seeing the scattered silver cans on the living room floor or the sounds that my mother made when he took things too far. The weight had been lifted. The sky remained black but the day seemed bright. The fear vanished. I wasn’t scared to go to sleep. That night I believe I slept (mostly).

A man handed my mother a flag. It was folded in a perfect triangle. What is that for? (I later learned the significance of this flag that now hangs on my wall and how hard it is to refold it after I thought it would be cool to use it as a bed spread. I think I saw steam emerge from my mother’s ears that day). Men shot guns. The sound hurt my ears. It made me jump. Again, I didn’t cry. I just watched. Looking back on that day, I can understand how my mother thought something was wrong with me. But there wasn’t. Children have an amazing ability to deal with trauma in ways that adults are incapable of (I have witnessed this through my work with children suffering from cancer). This ability comes from the innocence. Or perhaps the lack of knowledge. Maybe losing a parent as a child is not as traumatic as losing them as an adult. I hear it always harder to “deal” as an adult but luckily I have not experienced this yet. How does one every really “deal” with the loss of a parent?

I got my turkey that day even though “Chef Daddy” didn’t make it. My grandparents, mother and I went to a restaurant after the funeral. The name remains fuzzy, but every time I drive south on I25 I can’t help but glanced up at it. The black car took us there. It was located high on a hill. That was the first time I felt anything that day. I was scared our car would fall off the hill as it made its way to the top. There were ice sculptures. It looked like an old castle. The food was strange. Funny how after eighteen years I can still remember that insignificant fact.

That night my grandmother called. It was late. She woke us up. She was crying. My mother was crying. They were yelling. My mother was begging her to come out of the bathroom and to stop drinking (I later learned that my grandmother blamed my mother for his death and was drunk of her ass).

The day comes in fragments much like my memory. It is confusing and out of order. It doesn’t make sense much like a memory from one’s childhood. While I could always ask my mother or grandmother to fill in the blanks, I don’t want them. Enough of that day that permanently resides in my mind and in my dreams. I don’t want the blanks to take up any more space. That space is reserved for my future memories, not for my past recollections. A hazy dreamlike state is how I remember my father’s funeral and that’s okay.