In one of the last memories I have of my father, he is
sitting at my kitchen table. Most of my family is there—it’s Sunday morning and
I’m making breakfast for them. The night before, we all gathered to celebrate
my 40th birthday. And amid the chaos of people shuffling around my
too tiny house with its oversized secondhand furniture, of the dog circling the
table, looking for scraps from the weakest links (my mom and brother in law),
of dishes clinking, knives scraping, the coffeepot percolating, I turned to see
him, quite in the din, flipping through a copy of a literary journal—one that
had just published a story mine a few months prior. He was reading that story.
Re-reading it, I should say. I knew for a fact he’d read it before. At least
once or twice. I knew he’d sent links to friends, at least a few relatives,
too. In fact, at his viewing—less than a week later—as people came through the
line to offer their condolences to the family (a line, I might mention here,
that stretched down the street of his hometown, Steelton, PA. A line of people,
standing in the dark, in the cold, icy January rain for him), I had this
information confirmed. Mostly by his co-workers—the ones I hadn’t met before—upon
learning which daughter I was, always had the same reaction. “You’re the writer!”
or, “You’re the one who wrote that story!”
That was nearly three years ago. Ironically, just a few
months before (at about this same time of year), I’d made up my mind that I was
going to spend my 40th year finishing the novel I’d been writing for
what seemed like decades. I was ready. I was energetic and hopeful about it and
looking forward to rolling up my sleeves and finally, finally getting it done. And then…whammo. Fate sucker punched me,
two weeks after my birthday. My father’s
death knocked me off my feet. I couldn’t write. I didn’t want to write. In the
days that followed, the occasional days that I felt normal, the days that I didn’t
feel like crawling into bed at 5pm and staying there until oh, I don’t know,
June, I didn’t dare disturb the fragile peace. I turned away from writing. I
found no comfort it in.
But eventually, the normal days started outnumbering the sad ones, which is a good thing. And I started to not be so afraid of writing again. But by then, I’d started to realize something—I’d gotten out of the habit of writing. I’d spent the past few years working rather hard to discipline myself to write regularly. At that point it wasn’t anymore a question of wanting or not wanting to write, of being brave or scared or fragile or strong or any of that. I’d simply gotten out of the habit. And not just of writing, but of thinking about writing. Of spending all that time in my head with a piece of writing. I’d gotten so far away from it that I could barely figure out how to start pedaling again. It was weird. And frustrating. And so I stumbled. Many times. I stopped writing, I got blocked. It was ugly. It’s been ugly.
But eventually, the normal days started outnumbering the sad ones, which is a good thing. And I started to not be so afraid of writing again. But by then, I’d started to realize something—I’d gotten out of the habit of writing. I’d spent the past few years working rather hard to discipline myself to write regularly. At that point it wasn’t anymore a question of wanting or not wanting to write, of being brave or scared or fragile or strong or any of that. I’d simply gotten out of the habit. And not just of writing, but of thinking about writing. Of spending all that time in my head with a piece of writing. I’d gotten so far away from it that I could barely figure out how to start pedaling again. It was weird. And frustrating. And so I stumbled. Many times. I stopped writing, I got blocked. It was ugly. It’s been ugly.
The irony of all of this isn’t lost on me, either. I understand
how lucky I am that I knew how proud my father was of me, of my admittedly
meager writing accomplishments. I never had to guess how he felt (and not just
about my writing, either). Even if I hadn’t known before that moment I glimpsed
him at the kitchen table, silently reading that story again, I would have
figured it out then. And yet it was his sudden death that pushed me away from
the very thing he bragged to his colleagues about. Or perhaps it was the excuse
of his death, to be honest. The excuse of it.
Today is October 31, Halloween here in the US. On Sunday, Mexico will celebrate Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead. A day to honor those who have
passed. And so to honor him, I’ve decided to give it one more try. I think he
would be proud.
One word, then another and another, ad infinitum.
ReplyDeleteI'm pretty sure your dad would be proud of your newfound resolve.