Letters from Loss

With a gaping ache that splits me in two, and all my love

My Dad is so many things. My Dad is loving, sometimes absent, a dear man, confusing, tireless, always proud of me. He calls me “Bug”.

Since his death yesterday, I have pictured him saying “Hey Bug” about a thousand times. As I write those words I feel a terror settle in around my chest because he is gone. It is so fucking heavy. It is dark. It is new to me but I have learned to ask myself what I want to do with it. This time I kindly tell the darkness to leave me the fuck alone. Maybe at some point those words won’t summon darkness? I really hope so.

He always talked about his view of Mount Rainier from his childhood home, Vashon Island.

He taught me how to drive stick. He is so proud to have a daughter that can drive stick.

We laugh a lot on our semi-regular phone calls. My God it feels so good to laugh with him. I know that I make him laugh in a different, special kind of way. He treasures it differently, more almost, than a laugh with other people. We laugh generously and often around each other in my adulthood because we are both eager to release some of the ache between us.

He aches because he doesn’t think he deserves to take credit for my success or my light. He feels shame. He tells me so.

I ache because I miss him even when I’m right next to him. I ache for the countless moments of repair he owes me but never gives me.

He loves me. He hurts me. He loves me some more.

One time around Christmas he comes to the city to have lunch with me and my husband, boyfriend at the time. We meet at Chouquet’s. He has a gift wrapped in his lap.

My heart leaps at the thought of him going out of his way to buy me a gift and wrap it. He hands it to me and says, “Your brother requested an alpaca blanket for Christmas. I got you an extra.”

“Wow”, I say, “Thank you!”

He annihilates me with two sentences.

My brothers, his children from his current marriage, my dear baby brothers, have always taken priority. I inhabit a secondary class of Dad’s kids. I am less like his kid and more like his niece. Though it is confusing because sometimes, like when he teaches me to play guitar, or on my wedding day, I am his kid. It changes often. With every interaction I assess his needs and adjust accordingly.

I will do anything for him.

With a gaping ache that splits me in two, and with all my love,

Katy