My Daddy

Note: The following was written on June 4th, 2011 – ed.

My father died this morning.

He was a woodworker and had very rough and beaten hands.

I have his blue eyes and I look like him. I’ve always liked that.

My son’s middle name is his first name. He was there with me when my son was born. I was happy that he and my mother were there with me.

I’ve been frustrated with him lately, because I was unable to communicate with him. I didn’t understand what he was doing with his life. Now those pieces are coming together and I feel sad for him because I see how alone he was. He was alone this morning when he died. That makes me so very sad.

I wish he had come to see me, instead of his friends in Florida. I would have cooked for him, taken him to the doctor, hugged him, watched his drinking, monitored his insulin. But he didn’t want that… he wanted his friends and his tools, working outdoors in the sun, making whirlygigs. He was always working with wood, making things with his hands, using his hyper energy by constantly moving and doing, creating beautiful things out of wood.

Just yesterday I was feeling sorry for myself, because my father would not call me to chat with me about how my children were doing or ask me about my life and what I was thinking. Then later I started talking to my daughter about when I was a really little girl and my daddy made me the most magical ferris wheel and I would sit in the bear chair and ride high up into the sky and watch him wave at me as I went round and round in a big, wide circle. He loved me and he showed me that love when he made me that Ferris wheel. He may not have told me he loved me yesterday afternoon, but he told me he loved me when he made the Ferris wheel or the doll house, the four poster bed or the baby cradle that my children slept in when they were infants.

I was his “Silly Goose” and he was my Daddy. I will never stop missing him. I wish I could walk in the woods with him one more time. I want to hear his laugh again. I want him to tell me about his wild youth and the silly things he would do as a teenager. I want him to tell me again about how he courted my mother and how pretty he always thought she was.

I don’t know how to grieve for him. This is very painful.