"It was at these times that he began to understand, after all those years of study and performance, of feats and wonders and surprises, the nature of magic. The magician seemed to promise that something torn to bits might be mended without a seam, that what had vanished might reappear, that a scattered handful of doves or dust might be reunited by a word, that a paper rose consumed by fire could be made to bloom from a pile of ash. But everyone knew that it was only an illusion. The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place."

Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay


you know that special moment when you're reading something and suddenly you get an unshakable feeling that the words were meant just for you? Just for you, just at that moment?

"Not All Tears Are An Evil"

I had a really serious cry over my dad just now. I'm not talking about a couple of tears sparked by a particularly sad Iron & Wine song (preferably "The Trapeze Swinger"). No sir. I'm talking about one of those really ugly, painful crying sessions, when your face gets blotchy and snot runs out your nose. The kind when, after it stops, you suddenly realize you're laying sprawled out on your floor at midnight crying over a five-year-old letter.

Mere days after my dad suddenly passed away, I remembered that I had a letter he had written me for my high school graduation. He wrote each of us a letter when we graduated from high school, offering fatherly advice for the coming years. I hadn't thought about or looked at that letter since, well, since June 2007, probably. I knew it was stuffed inside a box filled with other important papers, brochures, tickets, booklets, and cards that I'd collected over the past few years--the paper detritus of my college experience. But I couldn't bear to go looking for that letter.

A few weeks, or a month later, I got as far as taking the envelope out of the box. I took one look at it, saw "Jessie" written in my dad's handwriting, and put the damn thing back in the box.

Tonight, I finally made myself reread that letter. Not because I felt I had to, but because I didn't want to put it off anymore. I was tired of procrastinating the tears I knew the letter would cause. So, I read it. It was rough. Back in spring of 2007, he was hospitalized with (excuse my poor grasp of medicine) an infarction of his spleen--meaning that because of a blood clot, the spleen was almost totally deprived of oxygen, causing tissue death and severe pain. Which is not good. But they were able to fix the problem, and he made a full recovery. Anyways, in the letter, he told me that his recent illness had taught him how important it is to cherish your family and loved ones. Agghhh. I wanted to tell him, "I've learned that lesson too well, mister! Because of you!" But I kept on reading the letter, and it was as though I could hear him speaking to me in his "lecture" voice. Filled with his best hopes and wishes for me, filled with love and good words and wisdom. Infused with prayer, and encouragement, and strength. Signed, simply, Dad.

And I cried, like a baby. Or rather, I cried like a broken-hearted adult who feels like a lost little girl again. A little girl who worships her daddy, who loves the warmth of his hand on the nape of her neck, making her feel safe. A little girl who always does her homework, because making him proud was a reward worth all the hard work. I sat there and cried and snuffled and wiped my puffy, unattractively crying face.

And it was such a bittersweet feeling. With the emphasis on both the bitter and on the sweet. I miss that man. I miss him so, so much. I only hope I can live up to this letter.

"Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."
--Gandalf the White

Some days I think: I'm not doing so well at this. At healing. At surviving. At moving forward.

I'm not doing too well at all.

Is this what they call a cry for help?

"the terrible club to which we all eventually belong"

Not long after my dad's death, I felt like everywhere I turned--in every article on the internet, every youtube comment, every news story or movie or tv show--there was someone who was also mourning a terrible loss. I remember laying on my bed, thinking about how many other people were most likely suffering, right now. I thought about how much pain and grief and sadness and emptiness had always been swirling around me as I blithely lived my life.

 How many of the people I encounter every day, I wondered, are hiding some terrible sadness? Maybe that barista woke up crying for her dead parent this morning. Maybe that mailman just got the news that it's definitely cancer. Maybe that rude customer is acting angry to mask their terrible, terrible fear of how will i feed my kids. I thought about how much loss there actually is in our world. No one lives forever. Every loving relationship will eventually end in heartbreak. I suddenly felt an intense connection with everyone else around me, because eventually we all are hurting in our own ways, for our own reasons.

I recently stumbled across a quote from Rosanne Cash that beautifully describes the feeling I'd had about the suffering all around me:

“In the months since my father’s passing I had come to understand that the loss of a parent expands you- or shrinks you, as the case may be- according to your own nature. If too much business is left unfinished, and guilt and regret take hold deep in the soul, mourning begins to diminish you, to constrict the heart, to truncate the vision of your own future and to narrow the creative potential of the mind and spirit. If enough has been resolved- not everything, for everything will never be done, but just enough- the deep grief begins to transform the inner landscape, and space opens inside. You begin to realize that everyone has a tragedy, and that if he doesn’t, he will. You recognize how much is hidden behind the the small courtesies and civilities of everyday existence. Deep sorrow and traces of great loss run through everyone’s lives, and yet they let others step into the elevator first, wave them ahead in a line of traffic, smile and greet their children and inquire about their lives, and never let on for a second that they, too, have lain awake at night in longing and regret, that they, too, have cried until it seemed impossible that one person could hold so many tears, that they, too, keep a picture of someone locked in their heart and bring it out in quiet, solitary moments to caress and remember. Loss is the great unifier, the terrible club to which we all eventually belong.”

a Christmas story

This particular Christmas story is hard for me to write. But I've already burst into tears about it at least three times today, so hopefully I'll make it through.

My dad owned a lot of ties. And when I say a lot, I mean...he probably had at least 75 ties hanging up in his closet. He had ties of every shape, color, and pattern--from silly ones covered in smiley faces or the Three Stooges, to ties with the nativity scene or a print of Monet's water lilies. Collected over the past thirty years, all of these ties hung on two very-overworked tie racks in a corner of the closet, each already tied to save him time in the mornings. These ties are closely linked to my memories of my dad--when I see them I immediately think of him, of times when he wore them.

When my dad died, my sister and I talked a few times about maybe each of us kids taking a few of the ties, since they represent such a vital link to his personality. We didn't care too much what happened to most of his other clothes; button-up shirts and socks aren't that unique. But the ties speak to his character, to his humor and his interests and his personal style.

One day I went into my parents' closet to look for a purple tie (for a Clue costume party...yes. I am very cool.) and they were gone. My sister asked our Mom about the ties and she cryptically answered that, "they were taken care of." This was after my mom had donated most of his clothes and we were convinced that either she couldn't handle talking about them or, worse, she'd gotten rid of them all. I didn't hear anything about the ties for another month and a half. I figured the only tie we still had was the one my mom had put into the memory box, the white one we had decorated for Father's Day a million years ago. I tried to tell myself that this was fine. As I've learned from watching countless episodes of Hoarders, objects are not the memories themselves.

But this afternoon, after we'd all opened up our other gifts--with wrapping paper everywhere and stocking piled up haphazardly, with the baby upstairs taking a nap and the dog wandering around us begging for treats--my mom surprised us with a special Christmas gift.

She made each of us wait to open them at the same time. And when I pulled back the tissue paper, I immediately burst into tears. Far from getting rid of my dad's ties, my mom had taken them and sewn together the most beautiful pillows. Each pillow is created out of nine ties that were picked out specially for us--mine has his "Children of the World" tie, and an African looking tie, Jason got his golf ties, Chris his funny ties, my sister his floral ties. She even made a very beautiful pillow for Caleb, covered in brown ties for his Grandpa Brown. Even if he will never be able to remember him. Oh, and she also made two pillows out of almost thirty Christmas ties. Like I said, my dad had an impressive number of ties. And my mom is a beast.

 all of the pillows

 The tie pillows, for the four kids and Caleb

These creations might not mean much to other people, and they might see first the clashing patterns and prints. But all I see when I look at these are my dad. I see him wearing them, I see the face that was connected to the tie, I see the smile that was always on that face. And I see the love and dedication that my mom poured into these works of art.

None of us had any clue, though apparently plenty of other people knew about her project. She kept it completely secret--and I've been living with her! Every time I would walk out of the house to go to work, she would immediately start ironing the ties, pinning, sewing, cutting. She'd work furiously all day until it was about time for me to get off work. By the time I got home, she'd be sitting on the couch, watching TV and working on her puzzles for the day, like normal. I never suspected a thing.

She also made each of us a bigger pillow out of one of his favorite sweaters, familiar fabrics and patterns from my childhood. One of those sweaters is actually the one I remember my dad wearing in that first, awful dream I had about him after he died. But holding those pillows reminds me, if only slightly, of hugging my dad. Which is a really lovely thing.

I'm not surprised that she was able to make them, since I know she's really good at sewing. But I'm impressed that she kept it such a surprise. I'm amazed because they are so beautiful; I'm amazed at the amount of work it must have taken. I'm taken aback because I had underestimated how awesome and strong and creative my Mom could be, even during this most difficult time. And mostly I'm overwhelmed because they are absolutely the most perfect gifts for this Christmas.

thank you. 

"Come on, Come on, do the Loco-Motion with me!"

When I was in elementary school, I was part of an organization called American Heritage Girls. It was basically Girl Scouts for Christian schools--we earned badges and went on campouts and learned how to properly retire an American flag and how to make a fire. Yeah, troop #496!

Anyways, each year, AHG hosted a "Father-Daughter Dance." For a girl in elementary school, the dance was THE social event of the year. Even though I'm not a great dancer now--I require lots of friends who don't care if we look stupid and possibly alcohol in order to dance--I absolutely loved these things. There was always a theme and party favors and fun decorations. The Father-Daughter dances also meant lots of quality time alone with my dad, riding in the front seat of his car like a grown-up or teaching him the Electric slide. 

February 1997, second grade.

February 1999, forth grade.

February 2000, fifth grade. Disco theme!

February 2001, sixth grade. Sock hop!

I think now what these dances would have looked like to an outsider: lots of awkward dads dancing in circles with little girls, dads fumbling through the Macarena, giggling girls showing off their corsages to their friends. The conga line to "Do the Loco-motion!" snaking around the tables set up in some school's gym. Punch and cookies and a bored photographer taking pictures of the happy little girls and their dads. 

Basically, it's one of the most beautiful things I can imagine.

The Un-hugged Hug

I am sad. Sometimes I can't even believe it; the emotions don't seem real, because I've never felt such an all-emcompassing, lingering, pervasive sense of sadness. It feels as though even on a good day, there is a layer of deep, overwhelming sadness just below my "surface" emotions: laughter at a joke, frustration with a stupid customer, stress over applications. No matter what I do or where I am, it's there.

I am broken. It's harder for me to hope for the future than it ever was before. It's hard for me to continue to trust that things will eventually work out for the best. It's harder for me not to feel lonely, to be fine with being single. It's harder for me to be happy for my friends who are getting married, who are in love, for whom good things are happening. It's harder for me to get up in the mornings. All I can see are empty years stretching out into the future.

I am overcome with worry. I worry for my mom, with everything there is to take care of and remember and organize and deal with. I worry about money. I worry that I have no idea about how to be an adult, or taking care of car troubles, or paying taxes. I worry about having to face the holidays ever year. I worry about being alone. I worry for my grandparents. I worry that soon we'll lose them too.

I am resentful. I resent that this situation is happening. I resent people who take for granted their parents, their good fortune, their health. I even resent people who don't take it for granted, who are rightfully joyous and grateful when miracles occur in their lives. I'm jealous of the miracle. I resent people who try to comfort me with platitudes or heaven or Bible verses. It's just not enough to break through this pain, not yet. Not yet. I resent that I have no choice but to be messed up and sad and broken, for the foreseeable future. I think about how I feel now, then I think about how every person I've talked to says, "It's never going to be okay." It's not that I want to be "okay" with my dad dying, but I miss feeling like my life was whole. Not shattered, not missing a very huge and important piece. I miss feeling like there was a shape and a purpose to my life, a direction and a past. A life in which every moment unfolded brand new and bursting with possibilities.

I am bereft.

All I want to do right now is give my dad the biggest bear hug, to squeeze tight and hold on. I dream about it; I think about the exact details: how high I would lift my arms, how I'd stand on tiptoes, where my hands would meet, his arms around me. How I'd feel him telling me he loved me, the vibrations of his voice reverberating through us both. My arms ache with that un-hugged hug.

I just realized I don't remember our last hug. I don't remember the last time he told me he loved me. I do remember the last time I told him, just before he slipped away from me forever.