Go figure. My Dad was never at a loss for words. Sometimes, he would drive me crazy, trying to fix everything that was going wrong in my life. (Dads do that, I think, for daughters…or at least that’s what he used to do for me. I haven’t asked my sister about how it worked for her, how their relationship differed, but I know that he used to go to watch football with her at a local watering hole. That never happened with me. I was the cerebral, creative one. She likely had more fun with him, I sometimes think, drinking pints and ‘shooting the shit,’ as he would have called it.)
When it came to our conversations, which were many–especially for the three years after my mum died–he’d sit there, listen to whatever I needed to talk about, nodding seriously, and then start asking questions. Usually the questions were of the ‘leading’ sort. He should’ve been a lawyer or something. He was a master storyteller, but he was even better at getting me to think about alternatives when I was up against a big, scary decision or had to deal with a problem at school, work, with friends, or boys…and later men. He liked being the sage oracle. In his last few years, he became even more philosophical, so that I often called him my ‘little Buddha’ or ‘Yoda.’
Christmas. Yeah. December is always the cruelest month for me. It’s bookended by two major death dates–my mum’s on the 18th and my dad’s on the 28th. I used to try to avoid it, I really did, but that just makes it worse. Better to sink into the ‘I miss you’ vibe than fight it. You can’t fight an emotion that is born of love. And you shouldn’t, I don’t think, so I’ve learned, last year and this one especially, to let myself marinate in the lessons I’ve learned over the last few years. I’ve also learned to be aware of serendipitous happenings…because I know Dad is still around, watching over me and giving me a nudge when I most need one.
Dad loved Christmas. He used to play Santa Claus at the old INCO Club on Frood Road for years, for as far back as I can remember. Even after he stopped working at the Copper Refinery in Copper Cliff, he still dragged us out to the Christmas parties for INCO kids every year. We knew it was him dressed as Santa. He was our dad. We were pretty smart girls. Every year, for a long time, he’d pretend that he didn’t know us, to try to trick us into believing he wasn’t the Santa in the big chair, but we knew. You couldn’t hide Dad…he had a lot of light going on in there. 🙂 So, Dad loved Christmas for as long as I can remember. Until my mum died…and then it was harder. I still remember the year he died, how he told me that he was sure he would die on the same date as she had. I thought that was a bit overly cinematic, and when he didn’t manage to synch the date, when he woke up on the 19th, he was actually kind of disappointed. He’d say, “You know, I saw her last night, and she looked like Judy Garland…so gorgeous. Like, Judy Garland, plus, plus, plus. I don’t understand why she doesn’t come and get me. Maybe she found someone else in heaven.” I assured him she wouldn’t do that, that heaven wasn’t a pick-up joint or an internet dating site; he was too unique…so I just kept telling him that it was obvious that he was for her, and she was for him, and that was part of the reason she was hanging around on the palliative care floor, waiting for him to let go. He took ten more days and then he went. Then, well, after that, Christmas just wasn’t the same anymore for me. It lost its shine.
My friend Brenda’s mum started the Christmas food basket campaign at our church years ago and, for the past few years, Brenda always lets me know which night it’s on. It’s the one thing I look forward to…I think because being of service to others at this time of year makes my losses seem less poignant or something. Packing boxes tonight–stacking up bags of potatoes and carrots, boxes of clementines and eggs, loaves of bread, and blue and gold boxes of Danish cookies–I kept thinking of how many people struggle at this time of year. It took about twelve of us an hour and a bit to organize 137 Christmas boxes. Tomorrow, some of the girls from school will go and help deliver them to families in need around the church. So many families…
Yesterday, in a seemingly unrelated event, I got a little package of essential oils that I had ordered in the mail. Yup. I love to burn lavender and patchouli. It’s part of what I do when I write, I guess…a sort of ritual. Seeing little tea lights brighten up a space, and listening to a bit of Bach or traditional Irish music, puts me in a frame of mind to write. Weird, but true. So, when I was unpacking the little box from the essential oils company, a couple of little Christmas tags fell out onto the counter. One, turned up so I could clearly see it, read “You are my sunshine.” I took a deep breath and shook my head. This was something Dad used to say to my sister and me, but he also loved to sing that song to us when we were little. It was sort of like he knew it was a rough month and showed up in a serendipitous way. Now, some people might not see this as a ‘visit,’ but I do. And, maybe, just maybe, some people would see it as a coincidence, but I don’t. I miss him. He knows it. I know it. We’re still connected. And for that I’m so grateful. Love can transcend distances, time and space. And every so often, well, Dad lets me know…and I wish against all wishes that I could have one more chat and hear just one or two more of those ‘leading’ questions that usually began with, “Okay, Kim…I hear what you’re saying…but what about…” I especially miss the southwestern Ontario accent he had, which always seemed weird when he said certain words, and how certain words or phrases sounded ‘off’ to my northeastern Ontario ears…how he let the words stretch out like pull taffy when they really didn’t need all of those syllables or time to create themselves. He just knew it was a way to keep your attention while he was telling a story, I sometimes thought. 🙂 (My voice takes after my mother’s, which was all sing-songy and wove itself with musicality into sound and language.) Still, these days, I’d give anything to hear his voice again…and those little vocal fingerprints of soul.
The universe sends you little gifts, if you are open to seeing them. My friend Sarah, a fellow ‘unicorn’ and playwright, has taken to calling me the “white Oprah.” I don’t know about that. I know I’ve learned a lot through being witness to life and its endings. It keeps teaching me lessons, this life, when I least expect it. Whether those lessons come in packing boxes for Christmas dinners, or in tiny tags with bits of string and words printed on them, I’ll keep my eyes open for them…and leave my heart open. When I’m most missing him, he sends me a little sign, just a tiny one, a ripple in the universal fabric of time and space, and I can almost imagine him sitting in his chair and saying, in the last week of his time here, “You know, life is too short, Kim. You need to travel, write poems, and love. That’s what I’m telling you. It just goes so fast. Too fast.” And then I can hear his voice, singing that song…
Thanks for the note, Dad. Thanks for the note.
peace, friends.
k.
Thank you for sharing this wonderful story. Costanza
Thanks for reading it, Costanza. ❤️
I reeeeeelate to you so much. xo
❤️
Miss you, Violet. ❤️
Such lovely words …fathers certainly are a great influence in their daughters’ iives..we do miss them but they are always in our hearts.Love you kiddo.
❤️