A Eulogy For My Fathers

It’s funny the things you remember when someone passes.

I lost my dad when I was six years old, and that feeling of loss, the emptiness that’s left in their wake, never fully heals. It’s like a hole has been burned into your soul, and though the initial trauma dies down, it never truly goes away. That’s how you know someone’s life has left an indelible mark upon you. And in some, bittersweet way, that’s one of the best parts of being alive.

Over time, you get used to it being there, though, every now and again, the pain will resurface like waves crashing onto a rocky shore. They recede again only to wash back over you, before being drawn back by the tide of life that continues its pervasive cycle.

But once the initial shock and sting that brings your mind, body, and soul to their knees subsides, it becomes easier to wander through the still-spinning world that we inhabit. It becomes easier to smile again, even though the thought of laughing feels abhorrent when someone you love has now entered the next phase of the lifecycle.

You can rest easy in the knowledge that they wouldn’t want you to be sad. They wouldn’t want you to weep and mourn for longer than necessary. Because, as you loved them, they truly loved you and would never wish upon your heart such a sorrow to carry with you for the remainder of your days.

But once they’ve gone from this world, the memories you hold in your heart remain. The way they called your name. The way their smile would spread across their lips. The love they shared with you. It’s all there in that little hole they left behind in your heart, that, upon first inspection, may feel empty, but contains all of the light, joy, and pain that you’ve shared in your interactions with them.

I only have a few memories of my father, one being a dream that fades by the day, but I replay them in my heart and thoughts so as to hold onto them, for someday I may be the only one left who remembers his face. His laugh. His jokes.

I’ve only had two other men in my life who have served as father figures to me. My cousin, and my uncle, whom my father had asked to look after my mother and me when he passed away. He knew his time was short. He died of a brain aneurysm in the hospital on the day of my kindergarten graduation in June of 2000. I won’t ever forget that day.

I had chopped off my bangs after my mom took me to get a haircut, and I didn’t like what they did. I also had two black eyes, multiple bruises, and was missing both of my front teeth from climbing onto, and falling off, of cabinets and getting into mischief.

My principal pulled me aside - on stage, might I add, in front of the ENTIRE k-12th grade assembly, including teachers and parents, to laugh and say, “I wonder what happened here?!” to a chorus of laughter. I laughed too, although ignorant of how I looked, and I still laugh about it to this day.

I then went back to my classroom for cookies and snacks with the rest of my kindergarten class to see my mother approach with my older brother. He had just graduated from 12th grade that day as well. But my mother’s face was ashen. She took me by the hand, and we left, and I had no idea why we had to leave early. I wanted to stay and have snacks, but the look on her face made me hurry. We took the car and drove away, as she shed tears and said we were going to the hospital.

We arrived at the familiar wing we had come to know relatively well. My father had been a speaker there on more than one occasion. What he spoke about, I was never privy to, for I was too young to understand or care to listen, and more preoccupied sitting in the sound booth and wondering what all the buttons and knobs did.

The ever-present smell of bleach and formaldehyde was sickening and didn’t help the pit that was forming in my stomach as we rushed onto the elevator and went to the 7th floor of the massive hospital. We exited and arrived at an unfamiliar waiting room with a door adjacent. My mother and brother entered and said to wait outside. This was weird, because they never really left me on my own. But I was fine with it in that moment. I stood on my knees on a chair and rested against the window enjoying the view of the snow capped mountains in the distance and the beautiful blue sky overhead. It was truly breathtaking. Little did I know.

After awhile my mother and brother exited the room in tears. Whose, I don’t think I really knew at the time. My mother turned to me and asked, “Do you want to go in and see him? I think he can still hear you.”

I looked at the closed door and shook my head, and thought, or spoke, I’m not sure which, “I’ll see him later.” That was the last moment my father was alive.

At his funeral I remember sitting in the pew of the church wondering where my father was, and my Kindergarden teacher approached. She handed me a neon pink plastic briefcase filled with coloring supplies. I don’t remember what she said, but she is still to this day one of the most impactful people in my life, and I have never spoken to her since. The irony being that I became an artist, and now hold a bachelor’s in art with a minor in graphic design, and it has been an ever-present pillar that pulls me out of despair.

It’s funny, the little random things you remember after someone passes.

I remember my father painting the cabinets for our house, a shabby chic teal blue, and the smell of lacquer that permeated the air, even outside. I remember sitting on his lap while he mowed the church’s lawn. I remember him painting the church all white. I remember him leaning over the back of his comfy rocking chair to watch me play with my dolls. I remember him hiding under the covers with me so the “rain” wouldn’t get us. And going back for my shoe, which I kicked out the window of our moving vehicle. Those are some of the handful of memories I have of him. Most have faded and are fuzzy, but I treasure them to excess.

And the dream I had many years later.

There are few things I envy of others. One is being able to take a picture with their parents as an adult. I had maybe a few pictures of us together as a child, but I always wished I had one when I was older.

One night, a few years ago, I dreamed. I dreamed of a domain where still, crystal water met the sky, reflecting each other in a dazzling display of a mirrored sunset. Bright. Warm. And calmer than anything I had ever witnessed or felt in my life. There was one bench, and there was my father, sitting. Waiting for me. I walked over to him and hugged him so tightly and said, “I missed you.”

We sat down, and I said, “Do you want to take a picture with me?”

“Sure.” He replied with a quirky grin. But the thing that makes my heart leap to this day was what happened next. I pulled out my smartphone, and he said, “What is that?”

“It’s a camera,” I replied, and he said,

“Oh,” In such a way that said, I don’t really know how that’s a camera, but ok.

And we took our picture. I woke up in tears, burning the memory into my mind, and the realization hit me. How. In the deepest recesses of my dreams, in my sleeping hours, would I have been able to, if it wasn’t a real interaction, be able to register that my father wouldn’t have known what a smartphone is? He died in the year 2000. The iPhone wasn’t a thing yet. The smartphone hadn’t been made. Only those large, bulky phones and rotary phones were still around. Whether it was the deepest wish of my heart manifested in my dreams, or a real interaction, I will never know for sure. But I choose to believe that it was real. And that’s ok.

This past year, my uncle passed away at the ripe old age of eighty-nine after fulfilling my father’s wish to look after my mother and me.

He was funny, cheeky, and truly caring in all things. Grounded, and wise, and quiet. I’d make it a point to dote on him when I had the time to visit him and my mom, some six hours away. He took her in after I moved out, and I could not support her the way I always wanted to. He gave her a home near her family, and she, in turn, would help clean and cook for him after her sister, my aunt, his wife, passed some years ago. They were the best of friends, always joking and teasing each other. He used to ask me to bring him his brandy at night.

“Two fingers.” He’d say, pointing at the glass so I knew how much to pour. I always poured three and took the first sip just to make him laugh before passing it over. I don’t know why, but when he sat in his single comfy rocking chair, I never thought it appropriate to sit on the other couch. I always sat by his feet, like a child happily looking up at his wrinkled, smiling face that beamed down at me like a grandfather I never had. We’d talk much ado about nothing and everything at once. But there was nothing I loved better than making him laugh. For some reason, making him laugh felt like a badge of honor every time I did it.

Yesterday, my cousin passed away, far younger than his life span should have been.

To put his personality in a nutshell, and I’m not sure why this particular memory surfaced yesterday for the first time in years, nothing fits better than the first time I remembered meeting him.

I was probably 6 or 7, and I went to a birthday party at his sister's house. How I greatly dislike that woman. Thinking about her still sends icky shudders down my spine, and did even then. He came up to me, probably in his 30’s, give or take, plucked a snail from the ground, and popped it into his mouth with a grotesque crunch, ensuring that his mouth was open while he chewed simply for the pleasure of my reaction, which I am sure did not disappoint. I blanched, and he said that it was a delicacy in France, though even then I doubted they prepared snails that way, let alone without salt.

He lived with my mother and me from around the age of 15-18. He was the funniest person. A horrible influence. And someone who made the lives of people around him brighter just for having known him. He was an ex navy seal, and his personality came with it. He told me stories of going all around the world and overshared many of his experiences and his love of very short women, haha.

He used to drive a tow truck, and I’d go on ride-alongs with him, pointing out parked cars violating the laws in his jurisdiction, hitching them up quickly to drive around the corner and finish latching them down. We’d talk about everything and nothing, driving around the city in the terrible heat we lived with. Those are some of my fondest memories.

He showed me how to play xbox ushering in my love of video games to new heights. Showed me Halo and Call of Duty, among others, which I still love and play to this day. He used to get mad when I played his console without permission, and got so mad at me once that he said, “You are not allowed to play this without asking me first!”

Being the brat that I was, one time he had fallen asleep on the couch, and I wanted to play. So in my rebellious era, I decided to wake him up to ask if I could play. He didn’t stir. I shook him and yelled, but he still didn’t respond. We called an ambulance, and it turns out he was fading into a diabetic coma, and if I hadn’t wanted to play Xbox, he would have died then and there instead of these fifteen years later. Needless to say, I got to play the Xbox whenever I wanted after that.

He wasn’t the best influence. He gave me my first sip of beer when I was fifteen. Probably for the face I made when I crinkled my nose. When I used to buy weed, he’d ask me to get extra for him and never told on me to my mom. (Don’t worry, I quit a long time ago lol). But he was always there. Someone I could confide in when I didn’t think my mom would understand. Someone who lived a full life already by the time he was 40. Someone who experienced the world on his own terms, but with a kindness, a love of life, and a moral compass, though questionable at times, always pointed North, if not always True North.

And he was funny. Hysterical. There are few who have made me laugh as long and hard as he did. A true confidant, friend, and father figure who, now that he is gone, has left the world dimmer than it was while he was here.

All of these men watched over me. Mentored me. Made me laugh, cry, and become the person I am today. Now that they’re all gone to a better place, they can rest content that they lived their lives to the fullest, and in my own selfishness, I hope they can be happy that, if nothing else, their lives have had some of the biggest impacts on mine that I will ever know.

May God keep you. Until we meet again.