dad memories

One story that keeps coming to mind is from his wake. Of course since it was January in Chicago, the weather was biblical: frigid with snow freezing on the roads. Treacherous. The fence-sitters and the unsteady stayed home—this was a crowd of true dad believers, including California cousins getting a rare drive in icy snow.

Standing in the receiving line, I shook hand after hand. “and how did you know my father?”

I worked for him.

when?

15 years ago.

Excuse me, 15 years ago? And you came out tonite?

I couldn’t not come.

I had to think, were there any bosses I would show up for? Not really.

Dad’s wake was an awakening for me. From the time when I was 9 and fighting with my girlfriends when he told me something that had happened to he and my mom, a true story, and how they got through it, I always knew my dad was special. The wake and funeral showed me how many other people he touched. I was almost jealous. Especially right after he died, when I felt like a raw wound.

It’s been 12 years since he died.

When I think of him now, it’s more positive than sad. I have such fond memories. My dad had huge hands. They weren’t long, but wide, like a catcher’s mitt, and warm. The absolute best way to be woken up was by his big warm paw of a hand gently cradling my head. It was like being slowly, gently pulled from sleep.