Dear Dad

 

 

I don’t know how many years it’s been since you passed. I don’t acknowledge your birthday, or death day because I can’t remember the dates.  I haven’t been to your grave since your funeral.  I might even have a hard time finding your grave.  I know I would.

 

But, I miss you. I think about you. I laugh about memories that come up, and so many have been coming up.  I compare men I meet to you.  I wonder if you would approve, or silently disapprove as you were so good at doing.  Would you be proud of me now? Or still waiting for me to “get serious”? 

 

You never told me you didn’t approve, your silence would be the message.  I knew I was in deep shit when you didn’t respond to me, acted like you didn’t see or hear me.  That worked better than any yelling ever could have.  It cut deeper.  Or you would tell my mother, “Kathy, blah blah blah” and then she would come at me with her screaming and hair pulling.  She never did that in front of you.  I think she knew you would stop her. 

 

You didn’t biologically create me.  You would watch me get picked up on random Sundays by my sperm doner and you never said a word in front of me about how you felt about it.  But you would be very quiet, while we all waited to see if he would actually appear.  And when it would finally become evident that he was NOT going to show this time (again) you would turn on again.  You would be your normal self and then I would be too.  I felt your relief as my own.  You never said you hated him, but I knew.  You never made me feel bad about him.  You never made me feel torn between you.  But you were always there when he was not.  Even when he was present, you were always “there”. No one could say you were not my father. You took me to court and gave me your name so you could legally call me yours, and so he could not leave me waiting for him on any more Sundays.

 

I moved back to New Britain after all these years and I’m perfectly comfortable.  At peace.  I find myself in Berlin most days because I’m so close to it.  I feel at home.  I remember living in Berlin with you and her on Porters Pass in the upstairs apartment.  I remember your friends and your roommate, Nate.  Oh I loved him so much because he gave me the Mrs Beezley doll.  He was so handsome, and his girlfriend was so pretty and nice.  Your other friends, The Greek, Potash…….those names stick in my mind.  Potash used to take me for rides in the Dune buggy on the sand pits down the street from your garage.  I have so many memories of that garage – of being sent to “find screws” in the back of the garage when  your friends on bikes would roll in, loud and exciting- the men riding them fascinating.  You didn’t like it when anyone swore or talked inappropriately around me, or my mother…….you thought women and children should be treated a certain way.  You were protective.  But I did get to go for rides on the bikes sometimes, so young that I sat in the front until I was big enough to hold on.  It wasn’t often, or far- but I believe it started my lifelong obsession with men who ride.

I don’t think you cared for that much. Or maybe you just wanted me to be treated well and kept safe.  You wanted me to “get serious” about school, about life

 

I remember waiting for you to come home at night hoping you would get there before I had to go to bed.  Your car would pull in and you would walk in the front door, covered in bondo.  I still love that smell.  You would pick me up and the dog, mopsy, would bark and jump and nip at my toes while you ran around with me laughing.  Then you would take me down the hall to my bedroom and throw me in the air to the bed, tuck me in, make sure my stuffed animal were in the correct place (I rotated) give me a big kiss and tell me to go to sleep.

 

Or the nights you came home at a normal time and would sit in your recliner, that yellow Lazyboy.  I would crawl  up onto the kitchen counter to reach the Calverts bottle on the top shelf of the cabinet and pour you a shot.  I felt important bringing you a shot and a beer.  That was my job.

I didn’t know what an alcoholic was then. I never knew the difference between drunk dad or sober dad until I saw you fling a plate of food at the wall during dinner one night and heard the words between you and her as I sat under the kitchen table where I automatically dove to be out of sight.  I have always learned so much when people have forgotten I am present.  “alcoholic” was learned in my kitchen sitting under the table.  And I knew it wasn’t a good word by the response it got.  Shocking and scary because it was totally unlike you to yell, to throw things.

 

I remember sitting at that same table in that same kitchen years later as a teenager telling you that you loved to drink more than you loved me.

And years later sitting at that same table in that sane kitchen smoking cigarettes with you while we discussed the people in rehab that I had met while visiting you there.

 

The drink got you in the end.  But that’s not what this blog entry is about.

 It’s about how many memories keep popping up because I’m living back in the area I first met you.  I went to the market we used to walk to the other day.  Its still there, owned by different people now.  I stood in the back ordering lunchmeat and looking at the same exact door to the meat freezer.  I felt like a little kid, with you holding my hand as you talked to the butcher.   I haven’t been able to drive by your garage- it’s still there.  I don’t know if Kenny is still running it- he has to be in his 70’s now.  The town is so different you wouldn’t know it as Berlin.  Central pizza is still there, and I got my sausage and mushroom pizza – thought about you. Its seems like most of my memories of you are in Berlin and thats weird because we didn’t live there a long time together before you and her bought the house in Middletown.  Maybe you were never at home in Middletown.  Maybe Berlin was yours.  Maybe that’s why I feel you there.

I was thinking I should go to your grave, find it. You are buried in New Britain as you requested.  But I’ve never been able to bring myself to go to your grave.

You were such an important part of my life, always there for me even when you didn’t have to be.  You and I had our quarrels, and I know that I pissed you off……..disappointed you with some of my choices.  And you disappointed me too at times.  I know you were sick, that you didn’t do it on purpose – that you struggled with alcohol just like your father before you.  I have your addictive personality even though we don’t share blood.  You raised me.  You did.  She maintained me, noticed me when it was convenient- used me, but YOU raised me.

I feel you everywhere like you are trying to tell me something.  I’m listening.