Sunday, June 09, 2019
I wish I could remember the last Father's Day with my dad, any little thing he did or said – but the events that followed it have swallowed the memory. Instead, I must imagine it as a historian puzzling over the end days of a doomed village, busy in their belief that sandbags, vaccines, prayers could somehow prevent a cataclysm. I picture myself on that day decades ago, just past my teens, outmatched and unaware, sure that if I just believed it, I could keep him alive.
The day before, I must have shopped in a too-bright department store for a tie he would never wear, or a gadget that would remain in its box. I would have purchased it knowing that a wrapped-up token could not fulfill my desperate need to thank him, to apologize for being a brat, to tell him I loved him, to save him.
I did not know on that last Father's Day that a few weeks later dad would be rushed to a life-saving lung transplant, only to be denied the surgery for a host of sad reasons. Soon, I would help my mom select a polished rock to mark his brief 44 years of existence, reducing to ash a giant who couldn't possibly be dead.
Now a woman of 50, I hold onto his vanished shirttail with a grip so tight, for so long, my fingers have gone numb. I want him to tell me what to do. I want him to write a letter to me in all caps, full of his famous misspellings and all the answers. I want him to be, forever. And this is the thing about becoming fatherless, no matter our age: We walk on our own because our dads taught us how. But some days, we would rather be carried.
about 23 hours ago
"Where Bluebirds Brood" An imagined wearable memory in three chapters, inspired by a photo found in a family album. Cuff bracelets. Sterling silver, enameled steel, bronze, rosecut pyrite, original poem and calligraphy. Electro-etched, lost wax cast, torch fired, hand fabricated. . . . . . .