Goodbye, Daddy

My dad died Monday night. Today’s the funeral.

He was not a perfect man; he had a great many flaws, and a great many demons that often got the best of him. And it left me pretty messed up for much of my life–enough that I could’ve taken (and have) dozens of books to work through it all and barely scratch the surface. To this day, the most vivid memory I have from childhood is one of terror and violence, of being six years old and scared of my own dad as he met my eyes through the spidery cracks of the windshield he was trying to kick in.

But I also remember a man who was generous and incredibly charismatic; he could listen to you like you were the only person in the world, and like what you said actually mattered. Who fought for the underdog. Who is entirely responsible for my early love of politics (even though I fell in a different political camp than him). Who loved arguing for work and twisting other people’s words to make his own point stronger (GUESS WHO INHERITED THAT), and who I think would’ve been incredibly proud of my writing now if he’d ever read it (or at the very least, the Letters of Shame I give to those deserving). Who promised me the world and occasionally delivered the best he could of it.

I remember the man who called me “Munchkin” and faithfully remembered every birthday and holiday, who had me excited to see him every single week when he took me out for lunch years after Mum was no longer involved with him. Who got me my first TV and Nintendo, even if he wasn’t there to play with me. Who took me to Canada’s Wonderland and rode on all the rides with me. Who got so frustrated that I had absolutely no interest in mini golf and when I insisted I MUST have won because I had the highest score. Who, upon leaving our apartment, would slow down after circling the building and wait so I could see him from Mum’s bedroom window and wave every single time, year after year, before he continued driving away.

And almost as vividly as the trauma, I remember a man who loved his only daughter.

I was born in 1982, the year Willie Nelson’s cover of “Always On My Mind” was released, and I remember Dad saying he heard that song and thought of me, and how he hummed it and said I was always on his mind.

So this is the dad I choose to carry with me, the one I choose to remember, the one I will tell my someday-children about. Because he was capable of tremendous love and that, just as much as everything else, helped shape the person–for better or worse–whose blog and books you’re reading today.

Goodbye, Daddy.