The Letter Never Read
Shortly after 15:12, the 6th of January, 2006:
Dear Dad,
As I write this, large soft snowflakes fall silently from the sky
outside, the perfect reflection of my current mood. My sadness is not
sharp, but covers everything with a quiet grey pain matched by the
colour of the midwinter sky. In my mind, I tearfully bid you goodbye,
and I meander back through the most meaningful of my memories of our
times together over the years.
The first landmark recalls our recent visit at the hospital where you,
my wife, my son, and I laughed and talked, all the while avoiding
mention of the coming separation, the one that has now come to pass. It
is the quintessential bittersweet moment, all of us doing our best to be
cheerful. Later that day, as I trimmed your mustache and eyebrows, we
looked each other in the eye, speaking volumes with nary a word. We
both felt our love for the other then, I think far more strongly in that
single tick of the clock, than when we said the words and shared our
last embrace, at the end of that last day. I can't ask for a better
final memory of you, Dad, as you were not a wordsmith, preferring
meaningful looks, facial expressions, and understanding presence over
talk.
Moving on in my mind, there was a time when you lived a short drive
away, and we could see each other when the mood struck. We often did
little more than watch your favourite TV shows together, or stand on the
back step while you smoked. When we did talk, we took turns listening,
while the other would pour out pent up feelings about the things that
bothered him the most that day, week or month. Our long pauses in
conversation were almost always packed with feeling, though our words
were few. Reflecting on this, I realise that you had become my best
friend, one of the very few people in this world who would hear me out,
without interruption, without judgement, but with a tactile empathy. I
do so hope that I made you feel the same when you spoke.
Switching direction, I come back to a time more recent, to when you
changed address and lived much farther away, in the South. We only did
get to see each other on maybe a handful of occasions during that time.
Saying goodbye was difficult then, but not impossibly so, because we
anticipated the upcoming day when it would be my turn to move, and once
again we would be a short drive away from each other. Sadly however,
circumstances have dictated otherwise. The distance between us can no
longer be bridged by simply driving a car, or dialing a phone. You have
made that singular, monumental change of address called Death. And we
thought your cell phone cutting out was a pain. ...This pales in
comparison, doesn't it, Dad? Now we'll just have to wait for my turn,
whenever that may be.
The next memory, several memories really, is of all the times we went to
the computer show together, occasionally with Dan and Don, maybe even
Bob. Sometimes, we would even buy something. Frequently, we would
enjoy a meal together after. I shared in your enthusiasm for computers,
as well as in your frequent frustration with learning them. I know how
hard it was for you to learn what you wanted. I didn't have the heart
to tell you then, but should have, that the secret to my successes, and
your failures, was the amount of reading it takes. After all, you
played a significant role in encouraging my reading ability. I owe you
so much for giving me that.
I next run quickly to the farthest point in my memory, to see if I can
still get there. I can, but here the pavement is crumbled. The
roadsigns are overgrown with weeds. But the place is still here. This
was before kindergarten, so I couldn't have even been five yet. Going
inside, there is only you, Dan, and I. Mom is back in the car. On a
great cliff way above us a boulder is perched. You whisper to us, "Be
very quiet, we don't want the rock to fall". I looked at you with so
much awe back then. Much later, I grew up and became a man. My
perspective changed. I learned that you were only a man, and like all
men, you had many failings, some of which profoundly affect me and my
family. Oddly enough, this only served to deepen my love for you. My
respect for you grew as I came to understand the sacrifices and
decisions you made, and how much they cost.
Thankfully, I had the chance to tell you as much. A hop, skip and a
jump later, I arrive at the day I married [my wife]. We dedicated the
ceremony to you, our parents. As I stood before the folks gathered in
the church, I read the words I had written for you, telling everyone how
proud I was of you, and how thankful I was for the hard work you did
that became a part of who I am. We looked each other in the eye that
day, too. A mere glance, and we communicated in that millisecond more
than a million words or a lifetime of conversations could. It was such
a delight to bring you so much joy, and see it shining in your face.
As a matter of fact, I can recall a number of such moments with you. It
still amazes me, the synergy that passed between us at those times.
Your enthusiasm for my abilities fueled my desire to share them with
you, to see you take such pride in my accomplishments. I remember a day
last February, when we were down South with you, Mary and her family.
We had just finished picking up some food at a local chicken shack. You
insisted on hearing me talk to the hispanic gal that worked there, just
so you could hear me speak with her in Spanish. Mary understandably
wanted to get the food home before it got cold, but I couldn't resist
seeing that wonderful gleam in your eyes. Another time, years earlier,
you actually even spoke of this. Not long after I could claim Spanish
as my language, we sat in a church together, when you came to visit
while I was studying in Puerto Rico. Throughout the service, I
whispered a running translation of what was being said. Although I
don't remember your exact words, afterwords you told me how amazing it
was that I could do that, and how proud it made you. Oh how I wish I
could look in your eyes to tell you the following. Ahora, te presento
esta última traducción: Papi, las palabras no bastan para
expresar las gracias que te debo por todo lo que hacías por mí.
Por lo tanto, sólo te digo un sencillo, ¡Gracias! Now, I
present to you this one final translation: Dad, words are not enough to
express the thanks I owe you for all you have done for me. Therefore, I'll
just tell you, simply, thank you!
With much love,
-James
OOOOXXXX