I spent the entire day yesterday...painting and doing whatnot in my new house. This driving back and forth from apartment to house is bullshit, but I want to have most all the painting done before I move my furniture in. Mom came over, as did Paul (who did a stellar job installing the new outlet covers) and of course, "the boyfriend".
At any rate, while I was painting, I would give thought to the day and it's significance. Thirteen years ago on December 6, 1993, my father died. While it seems kind of odd to remember such a thing and reflect upon it every year for most people, some things sort of stay with you. The circumstances surrounding his death are not average, and it took a while for things to get back to some semblance of normalcy after he died. My brother wouldn't even recognize his birthday (December 5th) for many years afterwards because the memories were just to painful to revisit. Even I still have a difficult time talking about it. I've only uttered the words once in public in front of strangers, and I don't plan on doing so now. It is something I have only discussed with very few close friends, and those people for whom telling the story is only relevant to their situation. To this day, I can't discuss what happened without my voice breaking.
Someday, I will have the courage to write it...but not this day.
As time has passed, the sting has waned to some degree, but the pain truly never goes away. Where there was anger, is now replaced with sadness and pity. Somedays, I can't remember my father's face, and other days it will just come to me as clear as if I had seen him yesterday. The same with his voice.
It still makes me cry.
I wonder what he would think if he could see his kids now, and how they turned out. Sometimes, I have questions I want to ask that I know he would have the answers to...like why my car makes a certain noise, and what's the best way to get up on waterskiis. I wish he were here so I can take him to my new house and have him tell me about all the things I could do, and how he could help me do them because he used to build houses...and we could do those things together. But most of all, I want to see that look in his eyes...the same look he would get when I brought home an award for band, or speech, or something I accomplished that made me stand out above all others. That look of pride that a father can only have for a daughter.
This December 6th passed with little fanfare, but lots of green paint. "The boyfriend" went around and pointed out all the things I could do to my new dwelling, and offered to do it for me...but it wasn't the same. He seems nice enough, but he's not my dad.
For one thing, my father would have never pissed in my back yard instead of going into the house to use the bathroom...and soap.
On a dismal day, it's always good to have loved ones around (or at least people you love even if they don't reciprocate) to remind you of all the good things that are still here and worth hanging around for.