But sometimes it’s later in the day

Day 4 — #writeingrief

I slog through the day, and inevitably, some business of my Dad’s creeps in. A financial matter, a digital photo in my archive, a moment when I am telling someone that “my Dad is…” and then quickly say “was” without further explanation.

I get home and immediately start dinner, pour myself some wine, and realize that around this time — with dinner simmering on the stove, the smell of onions cooking — is the time that I might pick up the phone to call him. And I actually find myself looking for my phone to dial his number. Then I’m angry at myself for disconnecting his Verizon account because I can no longer hear his voice on his voicemail.

I remember cooking dinners when I visited him. He seemed so grateful for the meals and complained a little about his wife not being able or willing to cook healthy meals. He’d tell me he missed my Mom’s cooking. He’d ask me for the recipe to something easy, like stir fry.

I drink more wine to drown out the memories, swirling the wine in a tumbler, sniffing into the glass.

My Dad didn’t drink. He hadn’t for over 30 years. Not since he was hospitalized in his 40s, while I was still in high school, for some unknown, unnamed liver condition. He stopped eating shellfish. He protected his liver with methodical care.

He was a methodical man. A civil engineer. A Navy man. Logical. Detail-oriented. Exacting. Yet incredibly sensitive and kind.

He was a fearful man. Afraid of the unknown. Afraid to deviate. Afraid to get out of a loveless, draining marriage. Afraid to be “taken to the cleaners.” Afraid of not obeying authority. Afraid of getting hurt.

I can still smell his fear. The last few years of his life, I noted that every time we spoke about my young daughter — his granddaughter — he would be telling me about his concerns, his fears. He once saw a photograph I took of her jumping on a trampoline.

“I noticed that there weren’t any bars or barriers around the trampoline,” he said in his measured way. “I’m concerned that she might fall off and hurt herself. You ought not let her play there again.”

It never occurred to me to be afraid. Even when I was afraid, I would push through, recklessly at times but insistently. I would not live in fear.

My Dad told me many times how proud he was of me and how he marveled at how unafraid I was. I wasn’t really without fear, but even now I don’t want to live with the smell of fear on me.