Two of the dearest women in my life have recently lost their fathers in unexpected ways. Like my own father, theirs had lived good lives, though certainly not as long as they would have liked. I feel the same way - my dad died eight years ago at age 74, and until the day of my own expiration, I will feel robbed because of that.
I often feel him with me, particularly at certain times when I know he’d be in my business. During hurricane season, I hear his voice: Gas up the car. Get cash. Make hotel reservations. Through the holidays, whenever I hear the hymn Joy to the World, I remember him whispering in my ear during Christmas mass: Jeremiah was a bullfrog…
But when I learned of the death of my friends’ dads, I instead felt his absence. I again longed for him to reassure me when life got tough - Go out to dinner. I’ll treat! Take a hot bath and go to bed early. It’ll be okay. Dad thought hot baths and a good night’s sleep healed all wrongs, although I’m not sure he took a bath himself his entire adult life. He did love his outdoor jacuzzi, though.
But that’s not what really helped. What helped was having a father whose sole mission in life was to ease the troubles of his family. I didn’t always need Dad to help me, but I always needed him to tell me he could. That kind of connection tethered me like rope made from hope, and I grasped onto it for my own sense of security.
I want to tell my dear sister-friends to take hot baths and go to bed early. I want to tell them I’ll treat them to good meals. I wish I could tell them everything’s fine, it’s fine.
But it’s not. It will eventually be okay, of course, although it will never be the same, but I would never tell them that because right now, it’s just not okay. It’s hard and it sucks. Grief sucks. Grief does whatever the fuck it wants. Grief makes you cry in the store when you happen across the Fritos your father liked, and laugh when you see balsamic vinegar because your father thought it tasted like his wife was trying to poison him. It makes you weep when you smell Old Spice and smile when you remember how much he loved Notre Dame football. In short, grief can make you crazy for a while.
I will tell you this, my dearests: Cry your hearts out. Let your children see you cry so they know how much you loved your father, the man who taught you about love and believing in yourself and about the type of person you wanted to marry. Do the things your father loved - go hiking, go biking, drink good wine, order steak. Take something that was his and keep it with you all the time. Make it a talisman with which you can summon your father’s magical powers of love - and believe fiercely that the love is there. It doesn’t die. It shape-shifts into an invisible aura that seeps into your veins, if you let it.
For me, that talisman is a bright yellow rubber Chiquita banana tchotchke that Dad kept on his keychain for reasons none of us can imagine. Now I keep it on mine.
Sometimes I can hardly believe that I can touch something once touched by my dad. It seems silly, but there you have it. I don’t have to look at it to know it’s there. The idea of it hovers around me and has became a part of the new me, this new adult who must navigate life’s journey not quite alone, yet not guided by the person who served as my protector, my source of courage, my biggest fan since the day I was born.
I’m sad for my girlfriends because I know their grief will consume them for a while. I know they’ll feel pain and anger and confusion when they least expect it. But I’m also cognizant of how lucky we are to have had such incredible fathers for so many decades of our lives, so in this way, I hope they’ll make space for the gratitude, too, and eventually, for the memories that recall the joy. Their dads would want that.
My own dad, if he was here, would want to buy me a keychain to replace the rubber Chiquita banana. But he’s not here, and I don’t want a new keychain. I want him here on earth, calling to tell me he just mailed me a package with some weird gift that reminded him of me - a gold-plated pelican figurine, a Bourbon Street t-shirt, a painting of a shrimp boat. He never would have sent me a bright yellow rubber Chiquita banana keychain. But I’m glad I have it, and I keep it close at hand.
Another beautiful piece of writing, my dear Tricia. Your Dad was your biggest fan and a helluva guy. Love that picture of you two! My keepsake is a handkerchief, cuz who carries those any more? ❤️
That was so goddamned beautiful. Great pic.