My dearest Daddy,
This is one of those letters I never thought I'd write, much less blog about. I can't rightly express why I'm making this public, except to say that it's such a big part of me I'm compelled to share it. I'm fairly certain you won't mind.
You've missed a lot. Politically, things they are a changin'. We have a black president (which I am still fist-pumping about). You were alive for his inauguration but I'm not sure how "present" you were. Regardless of what people are telling you, where ever it is that you are, President Obama is doing a fine job. Fist-pumping is when something is awesome, exciting or basically just positive. You make a fist and curl your arm in towards yourself slightly. Then you just punch it up and down, or out and in, until you have sufficiently conveyed how happy you are about whatever it is you are happy about. It's a movement that was initially practiced by a bunch of d-bags on a popular-for-no-discernible-reason tv show. Now everyone does it. Think of it as the modern day peace sign, except it's not going to advance into history as a symbol of...well... anything. D-bags are people that think they are socially paramount, when really they're just awkwardly narcissistic. D-bag is short for... ya know what? You really haven't missed much. Moving on.
Josh and I ended up moving out of mom's house 6 months after you died. We tried, pops. We really did but she was too much to live with. I have no idea how you did it for so long. I must thank you for protecting me for 24 years from a lot of her antics. It might bring you some solace to know that I'm fairly certain she has Borderline Personality Disorder. You know the kind of childhood I had... double it. Then double it again. That's what happened after you left. She tried to have me arrested a few times to boot. I have tried talk to her about my suspicions regarding her condition, but part of BPD is placing blame on others when sufferers feel out of control. The chances of her getting help are very slim. I'm not sure if dealing with her contributed to you doing what you did, but I think you should know that you were not imagining it. Most of what she complained about was not your fault. You were a fantastic man and father.
Josh and I are living in the city now. We have our two little cats, a great landlord, and a deck for grilling. It feels like home here and we're quite happy. When Josh and I moved into our condo a few years ago, you came over to plant a hosta in the front of the building, and to bring me these lovely, red Le Creuset casserole dishes. I'm happy to tell you that I lovingly use those dishes regularly, they have yet to break. And that hosta plant is still growing in the front yard of the condo building. We may not live there anymore but somehow, it has taken care of itself and is bigger than ever. I drive by every so often just to check on it.
Katie is still living with mom. I ended up laying into mom last Christmas and since then things have been better for Kate. I know it's still a struggle, but she has a new job working at a CPS school and a handsome new boyfriend to occupy her time. By the way Jorge knocked up some girl and married her. Aren't you glad Kate dodged that bullet? Sheesh...
Your favorite Chinese food joint isn't what it used to be, however they still remember Katie and I when we go in for take-out. Those almond cookies always taste so much better when they're free.
We still go to Home Depot just to smell the lumber aisle and eat those delicious hot dogs that you were so fond of. Doing that is like being held by you, in a way. It's as if the entire store wraps its big, store arms around us and fills us with all the memories of you that we hold dear. Tearing down that yellowing shed on the side of the house. Building the new, blue shed in back. Staining the deck. Putting in the fireplace. Turning the fireplace around to face a different direction after mom complained about it. Putting up drywall. Laying flooring. Every time a nail drops, or pipes clang, I can still hear you cursing in your silly way. "Sum-um-uh-bitch! Communist..." Home Depot is where we go to "feel" you.
Katie and I both have bottles of Halston Z-14. I can't speak for her, but I open mine and smell it just to breathe you in. I remember, when I was little, you bending down pick me up especially after you had just taken a shower and shaved. I would put my hands on your soft face, trying to figure out why you couldn't stay that smooth all the time. My hands would smell like your cologne for hours after that. Once I even had a dream where, I swear, I could smell you. I could smell your cologne in my dream and I woke up smiling.
I'm still a nanny, but I have a wonderful new family that treats me like one of their own. I didn't think it was possible to be so happy after losing you, but I must say that I have found the will to go on. It would have been such a dishonor to you if Katie and I didn't keep striving for the futures you taught us to seek out. I want you to know that we are, now more than ever, utilizing the wisdom and insight you blessed us with while you were alive. We will always continue trying to make you proud.
I've learned a lot since you passed away. I've learned that blame isn't worth its weight in salt. I still don't blame you, or hate you for what you did. I can't go on with my life if I keep dwelling about something I'll never have the answer to. I've learned that, when faced with a tragedy, people you thought were friends will bail on you, and ones you never considered friends will come out of the woodwork to support you for as long as you need them. I have learned that love doesn't end when life does. In fact, it often grows stronger. I have learned that there is a difference between "alone" and "lonely". I have learned that my heart will always break for you. But every time I am honest about being sad when I think about you, every time I push through something that is difficult because you're not there to help me, and every time I love someone regardless of what they may have done in the past, I am slowly bridging that gap between the two halves of my heart. It will never be fully repaired, because you and your death will always be a part of me. I like it that way. But one day I will be able to skip over that pain, acknowledge that it's there as a part of my history, and carry on.
Daddy, I want to leave you with something. Sometimes I just need to listen to this and cry.
Don't worry, they aren't all sad tears.
With more love than I can convey,
Mookser
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