Dear Dad // No. 22

Dear Dad,

Three weeks ago, you moved out. Found yourself an apartment and moved your meager belongings into it, leaving GC behind. When I called her home, she informed me that you were gone. You have no phone, and thus, I have no way to reach you. We have not talked for three weeks.

I’d be lying if I said this doesn’t terrify me. That you being on your own isn’t a frightening thought, and that I’m not waiting for the time that my phone buzzes and I don’t recognize the number and it’s what I fear on the other end of the line. I feel this reality bearing down on me like a train I am powerless to stop. One day, I’m going to be fatherless, and I don’t know how to be that girl.

But I also try so, so, so hard to respect this decision you have made. You do not remember how to read, you don’t remember how to write, and you cannot cook for yourself. These are all skills that I believe are essential to living successfully on your own. And yet, you set off to do such a thing anyway.

Is this bravery, Dad? Stupidity? Stubbornness? Is it all of this in one? I don’t know what it is, but I know that your decision was not mine to make. You told me recently that you only have so much time left, and you want to spend it doing what you were put on God’s earth to do: You want to paint. You want to grow as an artist. And you are brave enough to do this no matter what it requires of you. As you constantly told me during my childhood, God would provide. No need to worry.

But still I did. I always worried. I never lost that ability, even as you continue to show me how fearless you are.

For some reason, I find myself fretting over your food situation most of all. What will you eat? Maybe it’s because Thanksgiving is right around the corner, maybe it’s because some of my earliest memories are of our dinnertime traditions, but these thoughts occupy my mind. I want to ask if you remember them, but then there is no phone to call. So just I think about it, and imagine telling you.

When I was very young, and it was just you and me and Mom, you and I ate dinner together. I suppose Mom was at her waitressing job; I can’t remember. But you and I would sit next to the fireplace with our plates on the mantle and eat together. If I finished everything, we’d split a York peppermint patty. I was wild about peppermints, especially Yorks. This was all the motivation I needed to clear my plate.

I don’t remember the tradition continuing once J came along. It was a fleeting thing that was only ours. I’ve been tempted lately to mail you a big box of Yorks with nothing else in it. I imagined you opening it and the memory of these dinners bursting back to life inside you. But then I don’t. I think I’m afraid that you’ll open the box and nothing will happen, and how would I survive such a thing?

When I was older and we became a family of five, dinners were different. Mom often cooked two meals, one for the kids and one for the adults. J was exceedingly picky, something Mom blamed on you because at the time J was introduced to solid foods, Mom worked two jobs and you were in charge at home. You fed J what you knew how to make: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (creamy peanut butter and grape jelly only), spaghetti (red sauce, no meat), chicken nuggets, and pizza. Until J was in middle school, he survived solely off of these meals alone, without exaggeration. C grew up eating much of the same, simply out of habit and ease. I was the odd one. Not as young as my siblings yet not an adult, I flitted between the “grow-up” dinners Mom would make for you and the “kid” dinners she made for C and J, depending on which meal had more abundance. Some nights I pitied C and J for missing out on Mom’s white sauce pasta or three-bean soup. Other nights I burned with jealousy, stuck eating a meal I had no interest in because there wasn’t enough of the “kid” meal to feed three.

We never ate together either, except for holidays. Most nights, C, J and I took our plates into the living room (or later, when we didn’t have a living room, into the master bedroom, where the TV was) so that we could entertain ourselves with reruns of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air while we ate. Unless we were helping assemble work for the coming art show, we weren’t supposed to be in the kitchen, under Mom’s feet and interrupting your philosophical musings with our “peanut gallery” comments. Children were meant to be seen, not heard.

I guess it’s no surprise that by the time I reached high school I ate out with my friends as much as possible. Sitting in the red booths of a Bojangles’ with my friends around me, I found what I didn’t have at home. We passed plates of fries and blueberry biscuits from person to person, laughing and joking and teasing. None of us had any money; we were high schoolers. And yet, that didn’t stop us from pooling our funds, helping one another find another dollar and afford a meal. Looking back on it, we were all running. Running from something or to something. We pieced it together in the time we had, found a sense of camaraderie and home that we didn’t have in quite the same way within the four walls where we rested our heads. To put it simply, we broke bread together.

You hated when I ate out. You lectured me as soon as I walked through the door, asking me what I’d eaten and telling me how bad it was for me. You didn’t believe in eating out. Food fed the soul, and you couldn’t do that if you weren’t making the food yourself. In fact, it wasn’t until I left for college that you and Mom started taking C and J out to dinner some nights. Before that, I could count the number of times we’d been to a restaurant as a family on one hand.

All of this makes me wonder what you will do now, Dad. What will you eat? Will you give up your prejudice against restaurant food in order to survive? Is living on your own worth such a thing, that you would change how you have felt about something for as long as I have known you?

Or perhaps you simply don’t remember. Perhaps this opinion you’d long held is gone now, and you’re starting fresh. Perhaps you have found the bravery to do this, to move out on your own and live how you want to live, not in spite of these contradictions but because, to you, they no longer exist. Your mind has lost them, one more thing swirling in the abyss.

So now, I carry them along with me, in my thoughts of you. I fret over your situation the same way I fretted over each of our moves. My old habit was to lie in bed at night and conjure stories of people breaking into the house in search of something. I imagined as many scenarios as I could, and then I solved them. What if the robbers came in through the kitchen door? How would we get out? Would there be enough time to race down the hall to C’s room and back to your and Mom’s room, grabbing J on the way? Where could we hide if we couldn’t reach the back door? In the attic! The bad guys would never find us in the attic, I always thought. Every time we moved, this is how I spent the first night at our new house. I kept myself up for hours, scheming and imagining and working it all out, developing escape plans that I committed to memory, preparing for when some unknown Bad struck. Someone had to be prepared, I thought. Someone needed to think about all the things that I didn’t think anyone else thought about. So I did.

And yet here I am now, unable to devise an escape plan for your current situation. It’s not mine to create. This is your journey, and I can’t write it for you. I cannot seek out the hidden doors and fling them open, spilling light onto the encroaching darkness. I can only fill a cardboard box with things I think you need (a cell phone, Dad, is at the top of that list, preprogrammed with our phone numbers on it). I will mail it to GC and hope that she gives it to you. I will wait with as much patience as I can manage for you to call me, and only then will I be able to fret a little less. It won’t be easy, but it will have to do.

After all, this is part of love too. Acceptance of a decision that is not mine to make, and is not made in the way I would make it. I must find it within myself to live without an escape plan, without knowing how this will turn out, without knowing what in the world you will eat. I can only send you this package and hope that you receive it. Hope that when you open it, you will call me, and I can say hello and listen as you say, “Oh, hello, Ash,” as the sound of  my voice pulls your newly formed memory of who I am from the crevice where I live inside you. I can only ask what you need on this journey you’ve embarked upon, and open my hands to help.

Love,

Ash

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Dear Dad // No. 21

Rally sons of Notre Dame: Sing her glory and sound her fame,
Raise her Gold and Blue
And cheer with voices true:
Rah, rah, for Notre Dame
We will fight in ev-ry game,
Strong of heart and true to her name
We will ne’er forget her
And will cheer her ever
Loyal to Notre Dame.

Cheer, cheer for Old Notre Dame,
Wake up the echoes cheering her name.
Send the volley cheer on high,
Shake down the thunder from the sky.
What though the odds be great or small,
Old Notre Dame will win over all,
While her loyal sons are marching
Onward to victory.

Dear Dad,

You remember something! One year and 80 days after your stroke erased every memory you had, you finally remember something with certainty. And that something is the last thing I would’ve ever expected.

You remember college football. And not just college football. You remember Notre Dame. You remember that you have cheered for the Irish since you were a child, your deeply Catholic Italian family latching onto the prestige of a Catholic institution as it tried to set down roots on American soil. (Your grandmother was a first-generation immigrant fresh off the boat from Naples, a feisty woman who once tossed a potful of boiling pasta water out the window of her Bronx apartment onto the passing head of a Portuguese man who’d been sleeping around on her sister. As the shocked, scalded man leaned back and stared at the heavens, your grandmother leaned forward, straight out the window, and shouted down every Italian curse word in existence. Smartly, the man high-tailed it down the sidewalk and never returned.)

You remember who the quarterback is, though pronouncing his name befuddles you. You remember that Lou Holtz was once the coach, and that he used to grab players who towered over him and yank them down level with his beady eyes, hidden behind thick glasses, to scream at them before slapping their behinds and sending them back onto the field to “win one for the Gipper.” You know that the school has been involved in academic scandal, something that filled you with surprise and shame and confusion. You remember the song…

Cheer, cheer for Old Notre Dame, wake up the echoes cheering her name…

But you do not remember you and me and football. You do not remember that for the longest time it was all that we shared. That I adopted your love of that school, and that together we would remember the song every week when I called to tell you what channel to tune your television to for the game. You depended on me for this, to tell you the channel and figure out the time, because you were ever confused by shifty time zones.

After your stroke, I couldn’t watch anymore. My husband, B, tuned in for me. He would find me upstairs in the bedroom after the game, and tell me how it went. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but I just couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t find it within myself to cheer for them when you were 15 hours away, lying in a hospital bed on a respirator, fighting for your life. I wanted them to win, but I couldn’t watch. Their win was your win, their loss, your loss, and there just wasn’t room in my heart for all of that winning and losing and fighting.

But this season is different. You’re here, and you’re cheering, and so I cheer again too now. We talk on Fridays about how we think we’ll do on Saturday (it’s always “we,” Dad, even though we aren’t the ones donning those gold-painted helmets). When we lost to Florida State a few weeks ago, I called you to commiserate.

“We played so well, Dad,” I said. “We were really in it until the very end.”

“Yeah, but we lost,” you replied. “We still lost.”

You were really sad about that one, Dad. And it kind of surprised me, how much the loss meant to you. I wasn’t with you when you watched it, but I could tell from the sound of your voice that you’d needed that win, wanted it, and cheered for it.

Wake up the echoes cheering her name…

I would be lying if I said that it didn’t make me sad that you don’t remember that we watched games together. That we cheered and commiserated the Irish together. But more than anything, I’m happy that you have something back. And so I watch again, and I cheer again, and I find myself wanting every win a little more than I did in the past. Before, I wanted it for the win. Now I want it for you.

I used to think that one day we’d get to visit the campus together. I was going to buy Mom a house and take you to a game. Those were my goals. Then I grew up and realized that every ounce of cash I have leftover after bills goes to student loans, and those dreams drifted into the haze of adulthood. I don’t know if we’ll ever see campus, Dad, but I know that every Saturday we travel there together in one small way, shrinking the hundreds of miles that separate us until we meet under the outstretched arms of Touchdown Jesus and look up at the scoreboard together. We stomp our feet on the stands and sing into the crisp fall air, and we cheer so loud…

Send the volley cheer on high…

And that is the great thing about college football. It has given you and me something to cheer for again.

Every time we chat now, we talk about our Irish, and in our talking, we wake the echoes of your mind just a little more, golden layer by golden layer. We cheer together for the future and never forget the past, strong of heart and true to our name. The journey may be long and we must fight for every inch that we earn, but onward we’ll march. Onward to victory.

I’ll see you on Saturday, Dad.

Love you,

Ash