My Dad

It seemed like he was always there, until he wasn’t. Every night after work, you could find my dad sitting Indian style three feet in front of the television, wearing his faded sweats, with a bag of his chocolate candy of the month tucked under his knee. He never said much, but I’ve come to realize that what he did say had so much meaning, that it made up for all the quiet moments in our house. Not that there were many. There were four of us, two boys and two girls. The oldest two left when I was only 16 or so, leaving my younger brother and I.

My mom is the emotional one. She’s a constant worrier and to be honest there were plenty of times that I did things purposely to get a reaction from her. You see I could always count on a reaction from mom. Dad, however, was a different story. He had a look and that’s all it took. His look of disappointment could kick me in the heart faster than a three hour yelling fest with my mom. Evenings after school were usually spent with me in my room, mom doing housework and whatever else kept her busy, and dad sitting on the living room floor, engrossed in “Everybody Loves Raymond,” or whatever comedy had peaked his interest. We rarely had conversations and when we did they involved family outings and such.

Even when he was diagnosed with lung cancer and was having intense radiation therapy sessions, I somehow convinced myself that he would make it and we’d all be fine. You see men like my father don’t get sick and they definitely don’t die. At least not until they are 100 and die in their sleep peacefully. It just doesn’t happen. Well it did. But I still didn’t realize it really. The first six months after he passed away, I think my heart and mind thought I’d see him sitting Indian style on our living room floor again. After six months of not accepting his death, it finally hit me-like a rock. It was the sixth month anniversary of his death and driving home from work that day I realized-he was NEVER coming back. Never again would I see him. Never again would I get that look of disappointment again. I would take 1,000 looks of disappointment from him if he could just come back. But he won’t and now, three years later, I still have bad days.

Reba McEntire had a song out, “The Greatest Man I Never Knew.” The first time I heard that song after my father’s death, it hit me so hard I had to pull over. I was almost drowning in tears and a busy highway was not the place to be. But that’s how I felt about him. He was not a “touchy feely” person and rarely said “I love you.” He had acquaintances, but not many close friends. My mom was his best friend. They spent most of the time together.

But looking back now, I see how much I am like him. I never said “I love you” to family members until after September 11, 2001. Now it’s just automatic. I wonder if it being so automatic makes it any better than never saying it. I don’t have close friends and really don’t see the need for them. I am very close to my family and would consider my younger brother my best friend, if I had to have one. I keep to myself and I’m happy with that. I’m a thinker and I know I got at least part of that from him also.

I’m not sure how to end this, because his influence in my life will never end, until I too pass away. I have always been able to “put away” painful experiences in the back recesses of my mind. I stop thinking about them and they stop hurting me. But how can I ever “put away” my dad?