a trip down portside lane

grief waxes and wanes; it does not die.

last night, i found myself lost in conversation with my roommate’s grandmother, marian, around 11 pm after the tulsa symphony. lovely marian is quite the talker but fortunately an interesting one. she told me about her growing up, and referring to her father, she’d say “daddy’d always… daddy this, daddy that…” i found it odd at first. her, a 77 year old woman, full of life anecdotes and visibly plagued with the things that come with old age (frail bones, skin issues, a severe addiction to traveling), talking about her father as if she is but a 4 year old girl. her twinkle in her eye looked suddenly very far away when she talked about him.

the more i thought about it, however, i realized that i do the same, though less. i don’t find myself in many situations where my father is a comfortable topic, but i find that every time i’m on the brinking point of a breakdown, the thought that sends me over the edge is the heartbreaking realization that i miss my daddy.

i did not have a lot of time to be my daddy’s little girl, but given that i was only 9 when he passed (2 months before my 10th birthday), that’s all that i know our dynamic as. i remember i always wanted to be where he was. if he was going to the grocery store, i’d want to tag along. nobody wanted to visit the grandparents but me, so we took the 5 hour trek to houston, me far too young to be riding with him in the passenger seat. 4th of july was spent just me on top of his shoulders to see the fireworks.

a few years ago, when i was feeling particularly sentimental, i started to look through our old computer to see if i could find pictures of us. i discovered much of the collection to be just pictures of my younger self, much to my disappointment, until i realized just who was behind the camera.

i don’t have a lot of memories of him, to be honest. even recounts of him amongst my family are scattered. each of my four siblings describe him differently, as if they all knew different men to be our father. much like our photos “together,” i see him around the house in his belongings that have remained. a chess set with samurai pieces, several guitars which i’ve now claimed, gigantic and enigmatic telescopes, a passport, some notecards with his handwriting, an extensive vinyl collection.

much of my family’s memories of him revolve around him in the computer room: one or two children on his back with at least two more crowded around our block of a computer, playing battleship or war video games. based just on these objects, i’d like to think that we would’ve gotten along.

one time, my uncle told me, “you’re a lot like your dad. has anyone told you that?”

not really.

“i think he would be very proud of you. remember that.”

a lot of people seem to offer what they believe him to have thought in present day as a supplement to an argument these days:

“dad would be so disappointed in you.”

“how do you think dad would’ve responded to that?”

i wonder often what our relationship would have looked like. this thought, beyond our mutual interests, really gets me nowhere, considering i am the person i am largely due to my father’s death. there is no saying how differently we would have all developed had his death not rocked our family, for better or for worse. and then, how that development affected each other’s development—the line of dominos cascade.

i guess it doesn’t really matter. things will never be the same, but really, they were bound for change. that’s the funny thing about families. they grow and they branch and they tangle and they grow. things would never have stayed the same, all 6 of us in our one story home on portside lane. what’s the use in pretending we would have been best friends?

do i wish things were different? the obvious answer is yes, but really, i’m content with where i am, who i’ve become. what’s done is done. we have to move on, even when a father outlives his son, and when his son’s children are left to find ways to fill the holes in their hearts.

i sit outside on nights that i miss him most, and i think about how he’d set up the telescope in the backyard on full moons. i look up at the moon, that same lovely moon that he loved dearly. it waxes and wanes, but it does not leave us, at least not fully. i do not let grief be merely an effect of his death, but rather of his love. grief may not die, but at least i live knowing that he is remembered. there is a hole in my heart and i do not think that it will ever be filled. but my heart has grown around it, protective and tender. i will never let go of it.

i don’t plan on dying anytime soon, but i am not scared of it. i know that when i die, i will go home and i will have someone waiting for me and that’s how i will know that i am home.

home, home, home. i can’t wait to go home.