We've been all over the place with gifts, emptiness, stories, more.
I love him. I can admit that now.
A week ago, my daughter turned three. We go hard for birthdays, extremely hard. We see parties as gifts we give to everyone, in celebration for how wild in love we are with our child. This year, it was an African Drumming Party.
Jam on a D'jembe... Don't laugh (or do).
We danced, accepted gifts, sweated out our respective perms and/or roller-sets, fogged up our glasses. We laughed; old laughter, young. Fortunately no one wet anything needed to stay dry.
All kinds of people came; black, brown, pink, beige (me). Some folks didn't.
Zora barely noticed the non-comers. Her cousins were there. In her 3-year-old world, that fact was both the joint and the jam. Her favoritist part. Her love her cousins.
Day ends. Two days stealthily passed. I wondered where he was. How come he kept being a no-show to these events? We'd spoke the night prior to the party. Auntie So-and-So was going to bring him from the city (his) to the burbs (ours). He even semi-joked he'd convince Mummi to come. I was even semi-ok with telling him it'd be ok if she just couldn't make it. We both knew and know: she never ever will.
Just this weekend, I learned he'd had surgery before the party. No details needed. None I'd like to share. But he'd had a surgery, an incision, perhaps blood, pain. And he hadn't told me. And he had walked, by himself, to the appointment. And he... had extreme moments along the way. My mother even confirmed his tears, the pain he experienced in the short days of recovery he'd had. He didn't ask for help. Didn't beg a glass of cool water. And I... I didn't even know.
And this has affected me deeply. Selfish, I know. Unselfish, I know.I had planned a party, held one, debriefed, and my father, my dad, was hurting.
We went to visit him this weekend. His daughter, his grandaughter. We peeked at him sideways, straight on.
I counted freckles. Hugged him more closely. And I don't hug. He doesn't either. He was his usual self more or less; gruff, sweet, sarcastic, humble. Half-way crazy yes. Side-eyeing me back.
Leaving, he long-leggedly approached my short-bodied car, leaned into the passenger-side window, crimping all 6'4 inches of himself into a very low frame, Boston, the Vineyard, and years of public transportation all up in his accent, and said :
"Kid. You're a nervous wreck. You're going to get sick. Come on."
Prideful DNA.
The stories our bodies both share and withhold.
A beautiful post Diane. A well-written tribute to dads and all the people who live their lives with little fanfare and fuss about themselves. Kind of the opposite of FaceBook.
ReplyDeleteThanks Robert. I handn't even thought of it in that way. Wow, and humbling to do so. Thanks again
ReplyDelete"Well written tribute to dads . . .who live their lives with little fanfare and fuss about themselves" - they just do, and be, and give, and live, and remain present - because it's the right thing to do. And only hope one day, someone won't say thank you, that they will find comfort that that person has always been there - for them. A beautifully written account Diane, and wonderful to hear/read your perspective on your time, the party, with your daughter, and feel what's going on inside. You have such a powerful soul and thanks for sharing it with the world.
ReplyDeleteThanks AD. I really appreciate it.
ReplyDeleteI guess what is most(?), more (?), very profound to me is that he's not always been here, perhaps always quiet with how he suffers, but not always present, and certainly not so much for me. And that sounds sour, but it's accurate.
But he's come back. And I've let him, and so, I've come back too. And so, there is something most (?), especially(?)... there is something...something in that process/reality/outcome.
And I'll take it. Happily so. Forever, I'll take it.