On September 19, 1992, my father walked me down the aisle and, upon reaching my betrothed, he lifted my veil, kissed me on the lips, looked him square in the eye, and said "If you ever get tired of her, bring her back just the way you found her." That really sums up Daddy. Protective. Resolute. And always willing to set you back on your heels.
On September 19, 2021, my husband (who obviously has not grown weary of me) and I were driving through Louisiana, on the way to Texas, to visit with my father. Four hours from our final destination, my father passed away. Transitioned. Died.
I really do not have the ability to put this loss into words. Approximately 3 months have passed, and I woke up this morning with this fierce determination to end 2021 trying my best to describe him. Define him. Maybe even depict who he was. He was complicated.
My father was amazingly humorous. Fun and funny. Prone to repeating jokes with impeccable timing. He was also great at making fun of himself and the world around him. I loved nothing more than him pointing his finger at something or someone, then holding his hand to his mouth and whispering what he found hilarious.
My father was demanding. You’d better do it once, do it right, and do your best! Disappointing him was never a pretty thing. Unfortunately, he set the bar really high, and he would move it higher every single time you managed to hurdle the mark. It was exhausting.
My father loved my mother. Even though they had been divorced for years, he still loved her. She knew it. My sisters and I felt it, and it was very comforting. Even though he had remarried, it did not seem odd at all that he felt the way he did. It seemed natural and right. I guess it would be easier for you to understand with a little background.
My parents grew up together. Their mothers were best friends, and they had known each other all of their lives. This bond was not easily erased with a piece of paper, especially with the 6 daughters they had raised as a unit. Until his dying day, my mother and father had a routine of talking about "the girls." My father liked referring to each of us as a number. I am #4.
My father was intimidating. Before you got to the twinkle in his eye, there was a steely reserve. A no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners look and demeanor. Especially in the early days. I believe it was his way of preparing us to be adults. I also believe he had to be somewhat anxious while raising young, black girls in the '50s and '60s.
My father was open/free. We were never the household that had to hide our femininity because Daddy was home. I actually thought that my female peers grew up in similar environments and that this was the norm. That wasn't true. Some of them slept in bras and weren't allowed to even wear pajamas around their fathers. Our lifestyle was the extreme opposite, but never lewd. I now know it was special.
My daddy could fix anything that was broken. Your car. A toaster. The screen door. My lousy ex-boyfriend. Now, that is a story! He could fix anything.
This last quarter of the year has been challenging. I am not entering 2022 with the idea that the first quarter will be any different. For 61 years and 11.5 months, I had a physical relationship that is no longer. I miss you, Daddy.
