October 20th, 1958 – July 26th, 2004
“Nothing gold can stay…”

There are certain things about my father I will always remember: the way he smiled at me when he was having one of his good days, the way he saved up money to grill choice cuts of meat as a special treat… the way he always treated me like an equal, no matter how old I was or what I had done. There’s more, of course, but it seems that for the moment, these are what stand out.

To me, Dad was always like an overgrown kid. He knew what made kids happy and even when he was exhausted or the fibro had taken over his body, he did what he could to enjoy time with them. In particular, me. I wonder if he knew he wouldn’t live very long. He did always seem to act like he was going to have a short lease on life and tried to pack as many lessons into every moment with me as he did fun. He always shared stories about his childhood and his rowdy teenage years, repeating them as often as I asked, as if he knew that I would someday cling to those stories as best as possible so I could one day pass them on to my own children.

He was also never afraid of being candid with me. He was proud of knowing poetry and I can’t hear or speak of Robert Frost without Dad flashing through my mind. He loved to tinker with computers and write music and play guitar. When I think of him, I remember camping trips in Huntsville and grilling and hiking. I remember fishing in the early hours of the morning or the late hours of the night. I remember squealing because I caught my first fish and Dad understanding why I was so excited and Dad complimenting me on what I’d learned and Dad telling me he was proud of me.

I haven’t been fishing since he died…

There were bad moments. Terrible moments. Moments that used to haunt my dreams and be the source of nightmares for years. And yet, for the sake of love and his memory, I shove those moments away, under the mental clutter, so that I can love him fully. So that I can remember his laugh and his stories and most of all, his love. What good would grudges do against a dead man who, in the end, truly loved his daughter?

I miss him every day. Even though the pain has ebbed and it no longer pierces me to talk of him, the ache is there. I see a woman with her daddy and my heart weeps for my own father for whom, I too, was a princess. I’ll always love him and I hope to do justice to his memory. I hope he knows that, somehow.