I had the pleasure of spending last Sunday with some lovely friends and their lovely kiddos. En route from one spot to the next, my friend L and her four year old daughter E and I passed the time by playing storyteller in the car. Seeing as L and I got a little distracted talking about grownup stuff, E became petulant and interjected, “I have a daddy and he’s all mine.” I turned around and playfully answered, “Well I’ve got a daddy too and he’s almost all mine.” She retorted, “My daddy’s still alive.”
Zing! No comeback there.
She got me to thinking though. I’ve got a daddy and between me and Dillon, he’s all ours. We have a daddy in the sense that everyone’s got a daddy (and a mama too) because we’re humans and not insects, and so it takes two to tango. However, I have a daddy and I also knew him and he raised me, which is already more lucky than a lot of kids. What’s more, he’s dead but he’s still there. And not in some haunting metaphysical checking-up-on-me-from-Heaven way, but because he helped make me who I am.
He’s there with me when I hunch over the keyboard, trying to crank out some words that sound good and mean something all at the same time. He’s there when I drive the back roads fast, late at night, cool breezes pouring in through the window. He’s also there when I work with my students and they write me letters at the end of the year that say, My heart doesn’t want you to go. He’s there when I take pleasure in fine storytelling, theatrically or cinematically or in a novel. He’s in the roaring fan that lulls me and Dillon to sleep. He’s there for the inside jokes and the shorthand and the lyrical turns of phrases. And he's there when I say please and thank you. Especially, he’s there when I’m kind and when I’m generous.
Of course, it’s not all rosy. He’s also there when I lose my temper and slam shit against the wall, and when I drink too much because I’m sad. He’s in the insomnia that grips me in the night, and the Irish melancholy that grips me at odd hours.
He’s there in my victories and in my flaws. He’s there because he made me, he taught me, and he released me to be my own person.
Oh Daddy, my heart doesn't want you to go.
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