Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 40 years old.
My father passed away 18 1/2 years ago. I’m only 20 years old, so simple math tells you I didn’t know my dad, and I don’t remember him. The interesting thing about this is that I have always based my opinion of my father on everyone else. How crazy is that?
It also means that I’ll never know if I’m right, because everyone will say different things. I’ve talked to women my father hurt, so I know he wasn’t perfect. I’ve talked to people my father taught, so I know he was a good student. I’ve talked to people that he was forgiven by, so I know he was a good person. And I’ve talked to people that saw him with me, so I know he loved me.
I grew up with emotionally abusive, alcoholic father figures after my father died until I was 16 years old. Because of this, I grew up with a glorified version of my dad in my head. I had only heard good things at that point (no one says bad things to a little kid), and I was convinced my whole life would have been better if he was still alive.
I used to go to his gravesite with my grandmother several times a year. It was always a day long event, driving to the little town in the middle of rural Nebraska to the cemetery on the hill. We would stop for lunch in the town at the local diner, and then piece together a flower assortment at the local flower shop.
Once at his grave, my grandmother would take pictures. Tons of them. Pictures of us putting things up (she always made a wreath), cleaning the site, me sitting on his headstone or standing behind it. And then she’d quietly sit down and talk to him, and start to cry.
At every visit this happened, and no matter how old I was, I didn’t cry. I felt like I should have, I even wanted to, but I never did. I cried other times as a child, over much simpler things, so why not about my dad?
I struggled with this for years. I thought I was a bad person because I didn’t cry over my father’s death. When people would ask what my dad did for a living and I’d tell them he was deceased, they always said they were sorry. An awkward conversation always seemed to follow. I’d assure them it was fine, they’d insist condolences, I’d explain it had been X many years, they’d say it would get easier…and on. I was so frustrated and becoming more certain I was abnormal for not still being upset.
It’s very hard to miss someone you can’t remember, no matter how hard you want to. I can only miss the version of my father my mind has created based on others’ stories of him, and I will never know if it’s an accurate version. I can, however, honor his memory.
My take on my father is that he was a good person, who was a good father, and had many talents. That was enough for me to name my son after him.
The Freestyle Momma 