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.