Month: March 2016

We’ve always had a good time with Easter. Maybe it was the first flush of warm air and the promise of spring – but it would bring out dad’s playful side. He was a rascal, that one.

When we were younger, he’d hide the Easter baskets mom had prepared for my brother and I to find on Easter morning. But it could never be easy. They wouldn’t be resting behind a couch or simply covered by a blanket – you had to work for it. I remember one year, when I must have been about 4 or 5, when he hung it from the attic hatch – feet above my little girl sight lines. I wandered that house for hours as they all called out “hotter!” or “colder!” as I made my way from room to room, never thinking to look at what was overhead. Oh, I shed some frustrated tears that day. And dad, well – he’d sit back with that slightly sinister grin of his that was so endearing you couldn’t get mad at him. Because truthfully, the more he teased or seemingly picked on you – the more he loved you.

Easter last year was the last holiday we’d all spend together. We spent the morning gathered in our living room drinking mimosas and teasing mom. She’d given my brother and I nice gift bags with some candy and small presents, but gave dad his favorite peanut m&ms and some boat magazines in a Meijer’s plastic bag. You can’t bait that man with a joke or you’ll never live it down.

Finally, mom got up to make phone calls to wish other family well. Typically we had larger gatherings with everyone at Easter, but this year we resigned to a calmer affair. Dad was in great spirits, but struggling physically by then. She grabbed the phone and we could hear the tick of the buttons as she dialed, walking to the front of the house for a little privacy – when my brother’s phone started to vibrate on the couch. He looked down at it with a curious glint and shrugged his shoulders. Dad and I exchanged glances, tightening our lips to muffle the giggles we could feel swelling inside.

My brother answered his phone. “Hello?”

“Happy Easter!” You could hear my mother’s voice boom from the other room.

“Happy Easter,” my brother dead-panned.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“In the living room.”

A heavy pause followed as my mom’s mind was registering. “Oh.”

Click.

We were doubling over in our seats while mom walked back into the living room flushed. “I thought I was calling your uncle! Why did you answer?”

“I just thought it must have been important!”

I don’t think any one of us had laughed that hard in months. Maybe not since this whole mess started.

Dad could barely contain himself. You could always tell when he thought something was really funny. He’d laugh so hard that there was scarcely a sound. He’d put his hand to his forehead, as if to steady his breath, lightly spreading his fingers across his eyebrows. It is easily one of my favorite, last memories of us four together.

Since then, “Happy Easter!” has become a rallying cry of sorts. It brings levity to moments that are clouded by pain. And laughter is so absolutely important when you’re anchored by a million feelings at once. And laughter was so essential to who dad was.

A bit of a rascal, that one. Happy Easter.

Today is a good day. It’s the eve of a plane ride that will take my mom, my brother and I far away from here. I know, as our first trip, there will be difficult moments. As is typical when all three of us are together, dad’s absence will be heavy on our hearts – and we’ll wish for nothing more than for him to be with us.

But this is what we need right now. We need the worry to melt away with each mile we travel. We need to celebrate in the joy of each other’s company. We need to disconnect from everything for some moments of quiet, and take in the beauty of our surroundings. And tequila – that won’t hurt either.

A few months ago, I wrote a poem which, quite simply, is about hope. About finding life and embracing it beyond the folds of grief. As we head south, I thought this an appropriate note to leave on:

Oh let us cross the open sea

Breathe in its promise of certainty

Where the pain resigns

And our hearts our free

Let us cross the sea

Let eager waves lap against the shore

Eroding us and wanting more

Where our eyes are open

And hope implores

Let waves lap against the shore

Let the gentle tide lead us away

Beyond the stretches of the day

Where new life beckons

Just beyond the fray

Let the tide lead us away

One of the hardest things in losing dad, is trying not to let my heart drift to all of the moments I’ll never have with him. To not let the anger creep up and lodge in my chest when I see other fathers and daughters creating memories. To feel full of gratitude for the time and relationship I had, instead of empty for what I won’t. But it’s really hard. Incredibly hard.

Lately however, I’ve been experiencing my father in new ways. I see him when I look in the mirror. The curves of my round face, his nose – the funny birth mark we share just below the left lash line. I feel him when I smile and a dimple folds into my cheek – not nearly as pronounced as his, but still framing my smile when something is really funny.

I am him when I drive. Oh lord, my impatience for getting somewhere as quickly as possible when I’m weaving through traffic. I am him when I ski, when I drop my hips like he used to, digging the edge of my skis into a pillow of fresh snow. I am him when I tease or am being silly with a total sense of abandon like he used to. In so many wonderful ways, I am him. And in that way, he has been here all along.

If I get married, he won’t be there to see me in my wedding dress, but I can remember his face for every school dance when it would light up with hesitant pride – watching his little girl growing into a woman. He won’t be there to twirl me on the dance floor, but a few months into his treatment we danced at a wedding with my hand in his, and we spun dizzy circles and laughed trying to keep up with one another. If I have children, he won’t meet them, but they’ll know him in the way I play with them, teach them to ski and give into the silly. I will cup their small hands against the curves of my round face, his face, and they will know their grandfather.