I don’t like commemorating sad anniversaries or dwelling on lost loved ones’ deaths. I want to – I try to — remember them for their lives instead, to focus on happier memories. But some anniversaries are too big to ignore, and all I can think about today is that the world has been a little dimmer in the last year without my dad in it.
A year ago today we were just sitting down to a jet-lagged breakfast after a red-eye back to London from a week-long visit in Ohio. We’d spent lots of time with Al, and though he wasn’t feeling great he had a good time watching the kids. Mischief (that’s the codename for the 5-year-old supervillain-in-training) was running around like a wild thing, and Mayhem (the gleeful 1.5-year-old agent of chaos) gave his grandpa some cuddles and lots of smiles. It was a sad goodbye, knowing we wouldn’t be home for Christmas, but we promised we’d see him in February and we’d call when we got home. Instead Uncle Ralph called us as we sat down to a breakfast that we’d never eat.
Twelve years ago when Rachel died – Rachel, my best friend since we were 12, the other half of my brain, the person I’d most shaped and been most shaped by during the years when it matters most, like two trees growing entwined in each other’s roots – it was Al who held me up. He literally held me up, in a fierce bear-hug, while he told me the news in a shaky voice into my ear, “Rachel’s dead,” and the world went out from under my feet.
No one held me up when Uncle Ralph broke the news about Al, though I know he wished he had me in a bear-hug when he called me that morning. My husband would have, of course, but he was keeping the kids from harassing me, because he could tell by my voice from the other room that it was something serious. When I dropped down to the floor, pressed between a radiator and a bookshelf, all I wanted was to feel my dad’s big, strong bear-hug again. I want it now. Every time I’m sad.
I want to squeeze him and tell him he’s going to be okay. I want to nag him to take better care of himself, to call me instead of always waiting for me to call him, to go visit his dad and his sister and brothers. I want to talk about baseball. I want to tell him stories about what his grandkids are doing, and translate for him when Mischief tries to tell him stories on the phone, but she’s hard to understand because of the accent and the distance. I want to make him peanut butter cookies for his birthday. I want him to give us tours of his garden, even in the shaky, wheezy, old-man way of his last few years while he was sick.
Most of all I want him to be not just alive, but younger and stronger and happier than he’d been since he got sick – the real Al. The Al I grew up with. The one who outran guys 20 years younger than him on the softball field. The one who taught me to climb trees and use power tools and ride a bike and build sand castles. The Room Dad in elementary school, the softball and Odyssey of the Mind coach, the substitute dad to all my friends and the neighborhood kids. The guy who could spend the whole day walking his mail route, often in terrible weather, and still have the energy to have snowball fights or help me practice pitching. I want that Al back, because I’ve got a couple kids here with boundless energy who don’t even know about all the good Grandpa Al stuff they’re missing out on. And that breaks my heart all over again.
I’m sorry to be such a downer today. Tomorrow I’ll cobble together some semblance of cheer, but today isn’t the day for that. Today I’ll look at family photo albums, wear Al’s Browns shirt, drink some crappy beer in his honor, and have a good weep. I miss you, Daddy.
michelle heimburger 