I realized last night that I’m starting to forget my father. Well… I should explain that a little better. I realized that when I think back on my father I remember his illness. I remember the pain of him forgetting me… the discomfort of him speaking about my mother as “that woman”… the embarrassment i felt when he’d say something inappropriate. Essentially, I remember the negative things.
I spent a great deal of time trying to remember conversations with him. Advice that he’d given. Times that he’d comforted me. I was alarmed and sad at the fact that I couldn’t. I didn’t remember what he said to me when i got my drivers’ license or learner’s permit. I don’t remember how he reacted when I announced where I was going to college. I don’t remember his thoughts on my prom date…
That completely devastated me… it’s like the same illness that robbed him of his memories of us, had robbed me of my memories of him. Looking back I have to remind myself that my father was never a talkative man. It’s possible that I don’t remember what he said when I decided to go to Hampton, because he didn’t say anything. What I do remember though is his presence. He was at every basketball and softball game (even though i wasn’t very good), he was at every dance recital (even though i wasn’t very good), he was at every play (now acting, i was good at), took me to every dental appointment, came to my rescue every time my car broke down… he was ALWAYS there. I don’t ever question whether he was proud of me, because i knew it. And i’m a better person for knowing that. As I think about (hopefully) having children in the future, I hope and pray that I am able to give them what my parents gave me. I hope that I’m able to be that same presence in their lives that my parents were for me. It’s probably the best way that I could honor my father’s memory and pass along the things that have meant so much to me.
Gangsta Mittens 