Memory is a Funny Thing

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.