I stumbled down memory lane today, brushing off the cobwebs on the few memories I have of my dad. Pardon the unorganized chaos of my writing. It echoes how the memories surfaced.
I remember my dad standing at the bathroom sink. He was shaving his face. The sink was to the right, inside the right side of the doorway of the bathroom. He was a tall man. Enormous smile. Dark brown hair. I remember him seeing me and looking down and smiling. He always thought I was funny, or cute, or something like that. He loved me so much. That is what I remembered the most. I always felt loved by him. And safe.
Some of my memories of him live through the photos I remember looking through while growing up. I cannot say for sure what are memories or imprinted memories from photos. I have one that is all my own.
It was must have been late in the evening and our family must have just gotten home. I remember I had been sleeping and woke up as this big man, my dad, carrying me from the car to the house. I knew I had wakened up enough to get down and walk. But I loved being in his arms, so I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended I was asleep. He knew and gently put me down. I loved that man.
It broke my heart when my mother kicked him out. I remember her putting him out on the street. I was four years old. My memory flashes to him walking down the sidewalk. He turned around with the saddest face and waved at me, tears in his eyes. He stepped forward, as if he wanted to return to the house. My mother either said or did something that told him ‘no’. He slowly turned back around and left. His shoulders down, a slow walk.
I felt emotionally gutted. At 4 years old, I did not understand why I was losing my dad.
I would not see him again until I was twenty years old. I am grateful for the seven years I had with him before he passed away from cancer. Even more grateful he could meet my daughter. He absolutely adored her.