in memoriam

My dad loved me. That is a singular truth that I can never doubt. It was a quiet, adoring love. He walked the floors with me when I had colic; he carried me on his shoulders when I got tired of walking; he taught me to ride a bike and to do cartwheels; we played pool when I could barely see over the edge of the table (milk crates came in handy). We had a good time together, even if it was just me sitting on the couch next to him, telling him about my day.

My dad suffered. That is another undeniable truth. For seven years, he suffered from various forms of cancer, their treatment, and his recoveries. I barely remember times from before he got sick, from when he was a strong, wiry construction worker, tanned dark brown from the sun, hands rough from an honest day’s work. I do remember putting on his steel-toed boots and hard hat, wanting to be like him, to channel his strength. Those memories are vague. What sticks with me most are those moments on the couch, talking to him, watching TV with him, witnessing his ability to turn the air an Italian blue in his frustration with hockey referees. There were other moments when I had to be quiet, oh-so-quiet, because daddy had a headache again. He would bind a rag around his head, for relief, and lie perfectly still in a dark and silent room. He didn’t smile as much those later years; he didn’t laugh much at all, which looking back, is tragic for a man with a loud and easy laugh.

My dad was human. I am not the kind of person who canonizes the dead. My dad was a good man, but he was just that: a man. Not superhuman, not perfect. He had a difficult childhood; he struggled with alcoholism; he had a temper. He was also incredibly generous, helping out family, friends and neighbours who needed an extra pair of hands to repair or move something. He was a trickster. He was a flirt. He was charming yet dark. He was all of these things, and so much more.

I don’t miss my dad in the same way I’ll miss my mom when she passes. I only ever knew him when I was a child. I do have moments, though, and they sneak up on me, when I think, dad would have laughed so hard to see my girl do this, or, dad would have loved this, or, dad would have been so proud of me.

It was 25 years ago today that my dad finally let go, telling my mom days before that he knew I’d be okay, that I was growing up and didn’t need him anymore, not in the same way. He let go, with full faith that everything was going to be okay for me and my mom. My mom was there as he drew his last breath early that morning so many years ago now. She later told me it was the most peaceful, moving moment she’d ever witnessed. I missed him for a good long time. Today, he is present in my heart, in my memories, in my daughter’s hearty laugh. But more than missing him, I remember him, in all his glorious imperfection.

falling in love

The first time I fell in love, it was that crazy, headlong, teenage sort. I remember looking into that boy's eyes and just begging him to see in mine all the over-the-top emotions I had. It was giddy and it was good, and it was young. It lasted a year or two, and we grew apart, which was what was meant to be.

The second time felt very similar. I was still quite young, and we were good for each other. We spoke in superlatives, telling one another that we loved each other more than anything, that this was the best love there could ever be, that we would love each other forever. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't last forever.

The third time I fell in love was a slower process. This person came into my life through what felt like stealth; I hadn't planned on meeting her, and I hadn't foreseen the immensity of the love I'd have. It took me months to get used to the idea of her, and when I finally met her, I felt more of a sense of overwhelming responsibility than anything else. I do remember the moment I began to fall in love, though. She was still incredibly tiny, barely able to hold up her own head. We were with another mother and her baby daughter, who was howling. The Bean was sitting on my lap, in a doll-sized sweater my mom had knit the night she was born, and she turned her face up to me and seemed to ask, "aren't you happy I'm not that baby?" I looked at her, relieved she was so calm, and smiled. I know, kiddo. I know.

The falling in love after that has been a journey. Because I already knew how to love in this new, connected way, I was able to easily fall in love with my second baby. The first moment I looked into her eyes - she was maybe a minute old - I fell deeply in love. This love grows and grows, in ways I hadn't imagined. Every day, these two surprise me, and I love them more for the people they continue to become.

And now, there is a whole new sort of love. Falling in love with a partner, as a grown woman and as a mom, is a completely different experience, one I couldn't have imagined. The superlatives are gone. The urgency has disappeared. It still feels like fireworks and butterflies, but it also feels more solid. I am deeply, and so very happily in love with D. I am prone to grand declarations, but I have learned to curb them. I cannot, in all honesty, tell him that I love him more than anything. That statement is reserved for my children. The best part is that he knows that and is entirely comfortable with it.

My children have taught me that it's possible to keep falling in love, even through the hard parts, perhaps because of the hard parts, to keep falling deeper and deeper in love. To learn more about the other, to grow and to allow to grow, to watch and to respect and to encourage one another through it all. Perhaps that's how love is sustained day after day, year after year: to fall in love today with the person you are today.