A REKD GIRL

Two.

Two years is both a lot of time, and seemingly none at all. Two years – with all of its days and weeks – is enough to change lives. Or in this case, enough to nudge ours forward – although some things still feel eerily idle. Losing dad has become the fault line in our lives – dividing us from who and what our lives were before, and what’s become of all that now.

But sitting here, thinking back on these last two years – what rises above all else is pride. I’m really proud of us – mom, my brother and I. We laugh more. We go about our days lighter than we were. Especially in the last few months or so, I’ve seen us reach out across that fault line to the three people that came before it. And it’s been really beautiful to feel and watch. Time, as so many people promise, can make things better. It’s enveloped our hearts like a cast they could heal within. Where we are now, or maybe more so where we’re headed, is what I think dad really wanted.

That’s not to say it’s easy. I still miss him every day, and will every day going forward. It’s just a part of my make-up now. But when I think of him, I catch myself smiling – almost as if gratitude is the only thing that can fill the holes that grief has burrowed through. It’s a long road, but the thankfulness I feel for having him has muffled the anger I’ve carried from losing him. If life is unfair, I still got the better deal.

What I wish for, probably years from now, is that I forget this date all together. That May comes with its promise of spring and my heart doesn’t stop with the stark reminder of what it means. I don’t know if it’s possible, but I hope for it just the same. I want my heart to go to him on his birthday, on Father’s Day, in the small moments of any day. Not today.

That’s where I find him now, anyway – when I catch myself talking like he would, or watch my brother mimic his gestures, or simply feel a welcome calm when he comes to mind. He’s not May 12th, but so many moments before it. And all the moments after it, when we carry him forward in all that we are.

I went through that morning in a haze. I stood in the shower and sobbed – hoping I could shed my pain to keep it together during the funeral. It was robotic getting ready – putting on a black dress, and wondering why the hell I was bothering with mascara.

By the time we piled into my brother’s truck to head to the church, I was numb and already defeated. We all slumped against the leather seats in silence as he hit the starter. Three words blared at us in response – don’t stop believing. We exchanged wide-eyed glances as the song filled the cabin, doubling over in surprised laughter and tears. It was exactly the sentiment we needed to hear.

That song has followed us everywhere since. It comes on nearly every time we’re together. I hear it whenever I am home, or on my way to or from it. It comes on in moments when dad would normally be our voice of reassurance – like when mom’s car gave out with the two of us in it, or when I got a flat tire on the highway. And it comes on whenever I’m missing him and wishing somehow I could be with him across the stretches of place and time.

That’s how it was the other morning. Just after losing dad, a friend gave my mom a book that offers a thoughtful message for each day. They’re short passages that help normalize your grief, and have been a real comfort on most days. But lately, I haven’t been reading it. Life has started to even out and I’ve been eager to let it. But the other day I reached for it and thought about how I haven’t felt in a long while that dad is, in whatever way, still here. I made a silent wish for some cosmic wink that would make me smile – and wouldn’t you know what song came on when I started up the car to leave for work just moments later.

It’s still a comforting message – and an anthem of sorts these days – but believe in what I’m still not sure. That dad is still with us. That there is so much more beauty to thrill our hearts with. Maybe just a nod to carry forward – because that’s what he would ask of us.

But something happens when I hear it. Dad is with me. Not as if he were nearby – but the ways in which I am so innately like him come alive. It’s as if that love is given room to dance.

I recognize that what we interpret as signs can be tricky, even ridiculous. That in the swells of our grief, we cling to anything. We look for them, and perhaps force our faith onto coincidence in an effort to make ourselves feel better. And that’s OK. But also, at least for me, some things have happened that reason is hesitant to explain.

And no matter what – I won’t stop believing.

One of my favorite things to do when I’m home is to read through my old journals. I kept them all throughout high school and they are so wonderfully embarrassing, yet insightful. It’s a vehicle for stepping back into what feels like a lifetime ago. But no matter how ridiculous this naïve girl coming into her own sounds, I’m always amazed by her vulnerability. My heart was so open then, so trusting, and I’d follow the tidal pull of emotion to wherever I needed to go.

We harden as we get older, as experience teaches us to be cautious. It’s a natural thing, with wisdom becoming our guard against what we endure. I know I’m guilty of suppressing feelings over the years, closing off, and retreating inward behind what I thought was a cocoon of strength in an effort to muffle pain.

Dad knew it. Even before he was sick, I think he saw how the walls I built were closing in. “You’re hard, Toots,” he’d often say. Sometimes, I hate how much he was always right.

It got worse after losing him. I just wasn’t capable of letting anyone in. I was too broken and life was too complicated to pull my guard. The love I had to give was in short supply – in reserve only for mom, my brother and just enough to buoy myself. It was an exhausting grasp at broken seams, wondering if I would unravel in full. Truly, for months it took whatever energy I had to just carry forward.

As time has come in, breathing in space for my heart to grow, that shadow has pulled away. And I’ve spent so many beautiful moments with friends and family that have helped drag that joyous girl out from hiding. I’ve laughed so much my stomach ached, and felt my cheeks go numb from smiling too much. It’s a powerful reminder that though life is different, there is much to still look forward to.

I haven’t typically been one to make resolutions at the top of the year. When change calls, I incite it. But as the calendar turns over, it does offer a chance for reflection on what we’d like our life to look like. And with that in mind, I’ve resolved to make this the year of the heart. To be kinder – lighter, more forthcoming, more accepting, more open and more loving.

Even when we recoil in an effort to avoid the pain, it still comes. Life will upset the ground at times and knock us down, and all of the walls we put up in defense won’t do a damn thing.

Yeah – it helps to be hard sometimes, it’s survival, but I figure it’s much better to be free from what holds us back.

It started on Christmas Eve some 10 or so years ago, when we were gathered around the fireplace listening to music after celebrating the day with mom’s side of the family. 

A few minutes shy of midnight, we were sipping cocktails and telling stories when Handel’s Messiah came over the speaker – or what may be better known as the Hallelujah.

Dad’s eyes lit up. “I love this song!” as he started to get up from his seat. “Let’s go out on the deck and toast to Christmas!”

So we bundled in our coats and filled our glasses, filing outside as Dad cranked the music up on the outdoor speakers. I’m sure we gave the neighbors a startle that first year – as Hallelujah echoed through the quiet of night. We laughed and toasted one another watching the neighborhood lights flick on and blinds separate in curiosity. It was one of those beautiful moments that can only happen when you don’t plan it – and so beautiful that it’s become a tradition year-over-year.

And, my, how it’s grown. We get upwards of 30 visitors, and friends and family that can’t be here join us at midnight in a toast from other corners of the world. The Hallelujah has become a party itself. Each year there are more people, and even funnier santa hats for them to wear. It’s such an amazing way to welcome the holiday and was dad’s absolute favorite tradition. I think it’s all of ours too.

It was hard last year doing it without him, but I’d have it no other way. And this year – we’ll march out on the deck again and blare the Hallelujah across the canal, celebrating Christmas and saluting dad. 

It’s a rather lovely way to keep him a part of the day – by doing what he loved. 

So if you find yourselves awake when midnight melts into Christmas, pick up a glass from wherever you are and cheers to the holiday, the loved ones you’re with, and the loved ones who are always in our hearts.

And with that, I leave this toast. Merry Christmas.

Take to the night and rejoice, in winter’s weary hold

And when the music hums, raise your voice to what’s beyond life’s fold

As midnight tolls make a toast, as the Hallelujahs rise

For those we lost but loved the most, their love within us never dies

I remember silly things. Not so much the big, sweeping stories that embody dad in a cozy narrative.

And there are many of those. Stories that I have been audience to, and ones I’ve heard many times over the years. Like when he barreled through the hallways of his high school on his motorcycle, or when he accidentally burned down his parents’ garage when he was young, or the funny yet insightful exchange we shared driving to my college graduation ceremony. But when I think of dad, I trip up on the small moments – his mannerisms, his expressions, his sounds.

Sometimes it’s frustrating. The memories blur as if they’re treading just beyond my purview. It’s ushered unsettling questions forward: How much have I already lost of my father? How much more is to come? Is forgetfulness the punishment of time? And am I actively creating this distance? There are times I knowingly keep him from my mind, understanding that when I stop to think of him it can unlock a place of pain. Maybe it’s unhealthy avoidance, maybe my attention is redirecting to aid in moving forward. I’m not sure.

See when I close my eyes to think of dad, I hear him. The clap of the shallow garage door when he’d come home from work and sit at the step to take off his shoes. The jingle of too many keys when he’d open his small drawer in the kitchen to grab his phone. The moan of the office chair when he’d lean back to study his next move playing games on the computer. The crisp clink of ice cubes when he’d sip his whiskey. His clever quips and the funny, jovial mocking voices he’d make – particularly when he was teasing or when people were driving too damn slow in front of him.

I smell him. The soft hints of oil and grease from working in garages, fixing cars and machines. Fresh bar soap and the richness of a few cups of coffee.

I see him. I see him turning his skis backward and tilting his head as if asleep, playfully taunting us to keep up. I see him bouncing his hips up against mom when she stood at the kitchen sink to lovingly annoy her. I see him covering his face in laughter when we’d joke over dinner. The reflective gaze he’d survey the backyard with when sitting on the deck. And the quiet, telling smirk he’d get when all four of us were curled up by the fire on Christmas Eve and he was truly happy.

It’s these little threads of so many every days weaving together. It’s not what he’s done or where he’s been. It’s simply him, and in a way maybe that’s the purest way to remember.

I found it in one of mom’s home and garden magazines in early October, and my eyes lit up. They ran a big feature about Halloween decorations which included a pumpkin that had the words “Happy Halloween” etched through its smile, and I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Trouble was, my artistic ability tapped out around drawing a stick figure, so I’d be unable to recreate it myself. Instead, I excitedly plopped the page in front of dad looking up to him with eyes pleading for him to carve it for me.

It took him hours. And I’m sure it drove him crazy a few times, working the carving knife ever so slowly and precisely to capture the minute detail, but I think it appealed to the meticulous way about him. How it maybe had a calming affect on him to master intricacies, like whenever my necklace chains would knot together and he’d sit at his workbench patiently weaving them free. But he brought that pumpkin to life  – and I was so excited and proud to put it out on our porch that Halloween.

I was so young then, but never forgot it. When I moved back to Michigan from Chicago, summer was giving way to fall – and I spent the month of October living with my parents while I searched for an apartment. It drove me nuts on occasion, like dad’s insistence on watching almost nothing other than nightly news and NCIS, but it was rather lovely – being under that roof together again after so many years away. As Halloween drew near, I knew I wanted to revisit our tradition of carving pumpkins. And honestly, I really wanted an excuse that would bring just him and I together for an evening. Dad feigned enthusiasm, but I pressed on.

About a week before Halloween, mom and I went to a market so I could pick out pumpkins. I spent nearly 30 minutes turning over one after another insisting that only the best would do. Ones that were wide enough, tall enough, and free of bruises and scrapes. When I finally chose two, one for dad and I each, we placed them at the foot of the fireplace until we were ready to carve.

When that night came, I went over the the fireplace to bring dad’s pumpkin to him. As I lifted it slowly, the bottom gave out and all of its orange innards spilled across the floor. I shrieked as mom came bounding around the corner to see the mess at my feet. In the last week sitting there, it had rotted through and was collapsing in from the outside – making it useless to carve.

I was pissed, and I think dad was perhaps a bit relieved, insisting he’d sit with me as I carved my own – but I wouldn’t have that.

At the market, mom and I had picked up a few smaller, decorative pumpkins to place throughout the house – so I grabbed one from the kitchen table and placed it in front of dad.

“Here you go!” I smiled.

He turned it over in his hands, just larger than his palm, and looked at me with an eyebrow raised trying not to laugh.

“Really, Toots?”

“Oh yes sir. We’re going to make it work.”

And, like he did many years ago with that magazine clipping, he surrendered to his daughter’s will.

We spent the evening laughing and talking while we worked away on our pumpkins. Me, carving sweeping features into its side, and dad using a razor, shaving away layers to reveal a goofy, grinning smile. I always thought he was more creative and artistic than he gave himself credit for.

I can’t tell you what we talked about that night, but we spent hours perched at the kitchen island just enjoying one another, and it was so, so wonderful because a few days later, I moved into my new place.

I think of that night a lot, and it always makes me smile. Sometimes, the best moments aren’t how you plan them, and need a little nudge to get going. You can make memories happen if you give them room to.

I’ll miss my carving buddy this year. But I’ll laugh when I think of that silly, small pumpkin and the man who carved it to make his daughter happy.

 

I was never very marriage minded growing up. I didn’t delight in fantasy over magazine clippings of wedding dressings and cakes and decorations – dreaming of the day I’d meet the prince charming they’d fit around. It’s just not something I spent much time thinking about, save for a moment.

If I pictured my wedding, I couldn’t tell you where it would be, how I would look or who the guy standing at the end of the aisle would be – but I could tell you I’ve thought a lot about the guy standing at the start of it. I’ve envisioned that moment – when dad would see me for the last time as his little girl, and slip his arm tightly around mine to give me away. I wondered if he’d cry, what he’d say, how it would feel. And later, when vows were pronounced and champagne was drank, taking to the dance floor to twirl around in the safety of my father’s arms.

There are a lot of beautiful songs out there, but I always loved “Stand By Me” and thought maybe that would be the song we would dance to. I loved it for its simplicity and for saying the only thing that really needs to be said – that I’m here for you, no matter what. That’s who dad was to me after all – someone who was an unwavering source of strength and comfort.

As a daughter, there are a few defining moments you have with your father  – and honestly, it’s hard not to feel robbed of this very important one.

The other weekend, I went to my first wedding since losing dad with my mom and brother in tow. We celebrated with neighbors that have become friends and had a wonderful time. But when they announced the father, daughter dance I felt my chest tighten, watching from the side. I took a deep breath and tried to smile as I thought about what a beautiful bond that is between dads and their little girls, and how lucky I am to have as strong of one as I did. But it was hard.

Next to me however, was my brother. Another man who has been a guiding influence in my life. One who has watched over me for years, and who one day may have to fill some very important shoes. He already has.

You see – the moment we lost dad, I folded over in a breathless shriek. I caught myself against the back of a chair as I felt the agony crack open from deep inside. But then a pair of strong arms scooped me up and hugged me close, turning me away. It was my brother, and he cradled his hand against the back of my head talking calmly into my ear. It was the most absolutely beautiful, selfless gesture, and it made me feel safe in that swirl of confusion and sorrow. How can someone be so strong in a moment like that, and put their own pain aside? Because he’s his father’s son – watchful, protective.

And because he, just like dad, is always standing by me.

Mom texted me about road closures, and I saw the remnants of torrential rain outside my window, but still – I got on the freeway and headed to work. An hour and only a few miles later, and I’d become locked with hundreds of other commuters, slumped mercilessly over our wheels wondering just how much longer this may take – and I couldn’t help but think of dad.

The man knew every road in metro Detroit, every alley, every service drive – because despite having all of the time in the world, he always had to take the fastest route. He’d thunder through nasty neighborhoods if it would shave a second or two off of his drive. That’s just how he was.

He’d bailed me out before – many times – when I’d call in a panic lost or looking for a way around congestion. And he’d always have an answer, stopping whatever he was doing to stay on the phone and guide me turn by turn until I was safe. Even after I moved, he’d pull out his maps and reading glasses to navigate from time zones away. I’m sure my hysterics drove him crazy sometimes, but I think he secretly loved knowing he was needed – that even though I’d gotten older, I was still just a little girl who needed her father’s help.

Back on the freeway, I pulled up traffic maps on my phone, trying to re-route around the brazen lines of red and wanted nothing more than to be able to call dad for his advice. To ask if roads the GPS was suggesting were safe, or if there were clever short cuts and exits I could use to bypass some of the mess. And it hurt knowing I didn’t have that comforting voice on the other end of the line to bellow back directions.

It’s funny the things you miss about someone, and the moments that spring them to mind. Their quirks. The traits that are so uniquely them. How little things were actually really big, sweet, important things.

And realizing how much you wish you still had them here to help guide you.