Today was one of those beautiful San Diego days where I could get away with wearing a light sun dress and thin sweater. I got to the beach house at around 9:45. When I neared the house I saw a shirtless guy on the porch. I paused in front of him straining to see inside the tiny rental unit. I don’t know what I thought I would see, maybe a small memento from our time there, the small pink sand shovel Amelia used or a shell that one of the boys had picked off the beach. Nothing seemed familiar. Standing there trying to recall the day that seems like a lifetime ago brought it back swiftly.
All at once I remembered what it felt like during my dad’s final days. I remembered when he stopped eating all together and the quiet panic we all felt. I remembered his freshly shaven face the day my brother spent an hour gently applying shaving cream and working a razor across his unusually stubbly face, my kids cheerfully sitting by his bed while singing songs and laughing, my sister’s warm hearted humor and the artful way she made my dad fell so at ease, my mom’s strength and beauty and the way she loving washed his body after he passed. It all came back heavy and hard like a fresh sadness not one that I have carried with me for the last 365 days.
Before he died I had an idea of what it would feel like when he passed. I thought about it. I even imagined it. When it happened it was nothing like I expected. I felt guilty for being so sad. It must have something to do with my catholic upbringing. I felt ashamed of my grief. I didn’t allow myself to mourn. It felt wrong, selfish to be upset.
I was almost robotic in my actions. The day after his death I got the kids ready for school as usual, I icily told their teachers that their grandfather had died and we would be leaving for his funeral within a few days. I attended my 9:15 anthropology class and behaved as if it were just another day until my teacher took out the skull of a monkey and pointed out the different areas of its scalp. I thought about my dad’s brain and the tumors that spread everywhere. I imagined the tumors bumping around in his brain and I started feeling woozy. I stumbled out of class and threw up in the bathroom. I sat like a stone on the bench outside of my anthropology room for the next hour waiting for the students to filter out so I could get my stuff. On the car ride home I allowed myself to cry. I cried big gulping sobs until my face was red and swollen. I didn’t send my kids to school the following day. I gave myself permission to let the sadness in.
For awhile I dreamed about him nightly. In my sleep we would spend the day together. We would go to the zoo, or he would push Amelia on the swing at the park, or play with my boys. In my dreams he was healthy. It’s been awhile since he has made an appearance. Now when I dream of him it’s always vague or only the idea of him. Recently I dreamt that I was playing softball and he was in the bleachers way in the back covered up by a blanket. I could only see the dim outline of his profile.
It’s been a year since I have last touched his hand or spoke with him; it’s been a year since I told him how much I loved him. Today I realized that I don’t remember the sound of his voice. I can picture his face and even remember the way his chin felt after a shave, I know that the lines running across his palms are almost identical to mine with wide sweeping indents that create an upside triangle on the underside of his hands, that he had a scar running half way up his leg from a glass window that fell on him. I recall the softness of the gray sweater he often wore, and what it felt like to hug him. But I can’t remember the staccato of his voice. For a long time I had a recorded birthday message from him on my phone but I carelessly erased it one afternoon. The machine was full and in an effort to get rid of the many voices of telemarketers and dental appointment reminders I erased the only memento of his voice.
***
I am uncertain how long I stood before the beach house but I think the dude on the porch thought I was flirting with him. He smiled a big toothy smile. I blushed embarrassed for losing myself in the moment and walked on.
I decided not to sit on the beach in front of the house figuring shirtless man may think it was some sort of invitation. Instead I found a bench nearby and watched the waves. On the balcony behind me was a pale faced red head in a dingy tank top with another shirtless man.
She laughed while I tried to block them out. I cursed them for ruining my moment! I expected a little more decency today. The world should know that someone important passed away today and they should behave accordingly, I thought to myself. I wasn’t asking for porch dwellers with violins but I had been hoping for a little peace and quiet.
“I miss that Bitch!” I heard the man behind me say
“Who? Your ex-wife?” the red head asked
“It’s okay to miss her.” She said
“You know I still have our wedding pictures.” He replied
“It’s important to hold on to memories as long as you don’t hold on too tightly.” She told him
It was as if she was speaking directly to me. I wanted to shout out thank you and maybe even sorry for judging you so quickly. It may not have been Don Lafontaine, or a lady with a violin but the red head and her alcoholic friend made sense and spoke exactly what I needed to hear. My day remembering my dad may not have turned out exactly as I would have expected but it nonetheless it was perfect. I sat quietly on the beach taking in the sound of the water and the murmur of a hung over dude and his rebound girlfriend while thinking of my dad. I couldn’t have asked for more.
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