Some might argue that I am not quite whole because I did not normally experience the Electra Complex that would have naturally lead me into adulthood. My father died while I still adored him the way a little girl of eight tends to do. He could do no wrong in my eyes and in many ways I still grieve the loss of him. That being said I managed to adjust to the reality that I would never see him again. I’ve done well and lived a good life but a little voice inside my heart always feels the hurt welled up inside me on the fatal day when I learned that he was no longer coming home.
Still, because I was a bit older than my brothers I have vivid memories of our father. He was a very present dad who generally followed a routine much like other fathers that I knew. He left early each morning to go to work and returned in the evening when he would almost always shed his suits and settle down on the living room couch in comfy clothes while music played on his Victrola. This was the time when he read the newspaper or leafed through one of his books.
If I came into the room he more often than not shared what he was reading with me, explaining how the adult world works Sometimes he read poetry or passages from books. He made reading seem like the most wondrous joy in the world and he whet my appetite for indulging in the art of reading. All the while the music played in the background and he would explain why he enjoyed certain symphonies or concertos.
On weekends my father often took me to bookstores with him. He spoke of the great authors and most times allowed me to choose a book suited for my young age. I visited libraries with him and fell in love with the very sight of hundreds of books tempting me to open them to discover what was inside.
My father’s influence has shaped me in almost spiritual ways but it never really occurred to me that my brothers were so young that they did not have a clear understanding of who he was or what kinds of things he liked. Now and again they ask me questions about him that bring tears to my eyes. I realize in those moments that our father is more of a concept to them rather than an actual person who once lived and breathed on this earth.
A few weeks ago my brother who was five when our father died asked me if our daddy liked music. He spoke of how much our mother enjoyed listening to her many records which he assumed that she had purchased over the years. It shocked me to understand that he had no recollection of our father’s influence that brought all of that music into our home. My brother’s reaction when I told him about our weekend excursions to record stores and how our father listened to that music every single day was to smile in finally knowing that his dad liked the same kind of music that he does.
Once my youngest brother stayed behind after I had hosted an Easter celebration. He sheepishly asked me to tell him what our father was like. I felt like Wendy caring for her brothers and all the lost boys in Peter Pan. I choked on my words as I explained that he only needed to look into a mirror to know how our father looked. I explained that he sounds like our dad as well. Then I spoke of our father’s sense of humor and how much he enjoyed fishing and grilling burgers and watching football games. All of these things are the same kind of interests that my brothers have. It is as though the spirit of our father lives inside of both of his sons.
Our father would have been one hundred three this month if he had lived a long life like his father who made it to one hundred eight years. Instead we lost him when he was in his early thirties, a young man with a young family who thought he had decades of living ahead. His death impacted so many, not just me and my brothers and our mother. Over the years people spoke of him with a kind of reverence and each of them had wonderful stories of the deep relationships that they shared with him. All of those remembrances always reminded me that he was indeed quite special so I grieve for my brothers who cannot recall much about him at all.
With the love and special care of our mother my brothers and I turned out to be rather happy and normal. Still I wish that there were some kind of time machine that would allow my siblings to know what I know. Theirs was a loss that nobody really imagined until their questions brought their feelings to light.
We would all do well to pay attention to the children. They are watching and learning and wondering and yearning. It’s good to help them know what is real even when the knowing might be sad.
All It Takes Is A Little Love 