Visiting Dad on the anniversary of his death didn’t bother me when it happened, but it was one of those haunting things that creeps back little by little until you find yourself crying in the pool, salty tears dripping into a chlorinated sea, while a restless wind was willed into some message of my father saying hello.
On the actual anniversary date, I drove to Amsterdam first thing in the morning, and paused at the bottom of the cemetery hill, where a stand of wild roses had gone to hips, and the Queen Ann’s lace was already nodding droopy heads beneath the hot sun. At his site, I said a quick hello and ran my fingers over the etched name – our name – in the stone. I didn’t stay long, as I could sense he wasn’t there – not in the hot sun, not in the exposed space… but nearby a row of evergreens afforded some shade, and instead of getting back in the car, I walked over to the shady section.
Here, where lichens and moss grew, and relief from sun and heat was found, is where I felt my father, as it’s where he would have been on such a day. How strange and ultimately fitting that the man from the Philippines, who had grown up in sun stronger and more relentless than anything I could know in upstate New York, would so shun the heat of a summer day. He taught me that without ever bringing me back home with him.
There was some comfort in the shade, and consolation in the idea that this is where Dad might have drifted had he actually been there with me. I think that’s one of the things that I miss most about him. He would always end up quietly on the periphery, or secluded in some room with a television, or in the shade of an awning when everyone else battled the sun on the lawn or in the pool. When crowds swelled and kids got loud, I could seek him out and find him in some peaceful respite. Sometimes it was as simple as seeing him sitting at a table at some wedding dinner or social event, and I’d sit down beside him, just as uncomfortable and wishing to be somewhere else as he was. We didn’t need to talk or lament anything out loud – it was enough just being there with him.
It’s strange to admit this, but I don’t always feel included by family and friends, and when my Dad was alive I always had a space next to him, a place where I felt wanted and valued and loved, a place where he put me because he was proud of me.
I don’t know where that place is anymore.
