"They are not gone who live in the hearts they left behind." - Native American Proverb
The other night I was on the phone with my eldest sister (I'm sure she'll appreciate that description). We were talking about being parents. I enjoy these discussions with her because I think she and my brother-in-law do an amazing job, are role models even. And even though my sister is eleven years older than I am (another fact she may have preferred I not share), the fact that we're both parents is something we have in common. Not to mention, her children are aged 12-19, giving me and my wife a sneak preview of what's possibly to come (it's a little frightening).
Anyway, we were talking and I made a reference to our parents... plural... and she corrected me. So I said, "I don't refer to Daddy in the past tense because he's still my father even though he's dead."
We never stop being parents. Even when they're grown up and out of the house. Even when we're gone. He'll always be my dad. I'll always be her dad.
And that's what I'd like to talk about this Father's Day. My dad has been gone for more than eight years, but he is still a big part of my life. He lives in my heart and in my mind and in my stories about him. He lives every time my daughter says his name, since every time she says his name it's like she is saying it for the first time. Every time she sees a picture of him and recognizes him and identifies him. Every time she asks about him. Magic.
Everything I do as a father I do because of what he did. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Directly or indirectly. He lives through me and my actions as a son and a husband. And as a dad.
He's the one who taught me the importance of a hard day's work. He's the one I told one hot summer afternoon as we were digging and toiling inside a gigantic hole in someone's backyard... a hole that would eventually become a swimming pool... that while I am certainly capable of working in the field with him, I'm more suited for the store. "Dad," I said honestly, "I don't like getting my hands dirty, literally."
He agreed... because he didn't want the same life for me. So I worked in the store from that day on until the day it closed. I developed invaluable communication skills that I still use professionally today. He lives every day when I'm at work.
He lives in me through the things I say to my daughter... because of the things he
didn't say. Well, that's not quite fair... maybe he
did say them and I don't remember. Maybe he
wanted to say them and thought he had more time. Things like "I'm proud of you," "you're so smart," "you're so beautiful." I say these things when I feel them because I want my daughter to feel them and to know them. My dad was a father in a different time when men were not overly affectionate to their sons. Besides, when we were growing up his primary role was of enforcer. He was intimidating.
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| A daily reminder |
When I try to be like that my daughter says things like, "I don't like your face, daddy" if, for instance, I'm looking at her sternly.
He lives in the frame on the bureau in our bedroom... in pictures of the two of us, one from a childhood vacation to Puerto Rico, one from outside the tuxedo shop the day before my wedding. He lives in a keepsake box next to that frame. A box where I store cufflinks, and the watches I don't wear anymore. One of those watches is his (See? No past tense).
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