My memory of him has really faded like an old photo. In fact the pictures I still have are little snaps from the 50’s and 60’s that are candid and off center, frayed at the margins. It’s been over four decades now that he’s been gone.
When I think of him in those years, I remember his calming effect. In a childhood that was not idyllic, where I struggled to connect with my peers and be whatever “normal” was, he always reassured me that “everything will be alright”. I took walks with him -nowhere special, down to Pinault’s drugstore or the A & P. He walked rather slowly because of his bad heart. My mother used to say he had taken the stairs “three at a time” when he was a young man, and I found it incredible. He was in his late 50’s when I was 9 and 10 and we walked and talked, having our uninterrupted time. I remember his large hands and the feel of my right hand in his left and the sense of its protection.
The clearest picture is the one on the piano where he’s in New York and it’s the 1920’s. He wears an overcoat and a serious face – a young Irish immigrant embarking on his big adventure. He stayed in the US, married my mother, and returned to Ireland where we were all born. It was the second emigration in 1953 that broke his heart. His business in Ireland failed and the decision to return to America was the only practical option so that our family of six could start again in my mother’s country.
It was only when I went home to Ireland several years ago that I understood the sadness of his later life and the sacrifice of leaving that beautiful land forever. He was not given to complaint or regret, always looking after our needs and making the effort to pass on the best things that he knew – the history, the ethics, bits of Shakespeare and the poetry of Yeats.
He is with me still and very much present in my sisters and my daughters – some would say in my husband as well and I believe it’s true. He is with me when I’m quiet and when I’m passionate about doing the right thing. He made me feel that everything would be alright and, in fact, everything is.
I wish I could have met your father in the flesh. I just got back to yoga class, where the instructor was waxing for the entire time on fathers, and what her father was like, and how your relationship with your father makes you stronger.
ReplyDeleteMy general response was to tune her out because nobody who hasn't known dad can even come close to comprehending what he is like, so for him to be lumped with "fathers" in general is kind of vulgar.
Further, I think father's day is stupid. It's like Christians having Jesus day or something.
Then, after about 20 warrior poses had mellowed me out, she said something about fathers that I liked. It was something to the effect of: Even when he thinks he has nothing to give, he gives it anyway.
I like the way that ended. I can't even begin to talk about YOUR Dad as a dad without crying!
ReplyDeletewhen i think about dad i laugh AND cry! he's the best! but i'm sorry i never got the chance to meet your dad, mom. what a nice tribute!
ReplyDelete