Dad

 My dad is a character. I have mentioned this before. He does calculus for fun. He reads the paper/books/articles aloud but mumbles so you have no idea what he is saying, He drinks Russian soda. He is also humble, aware of his shortcomings and introspective. 

He reads constantly. I grew up with him and my mom sitting amongst stacks of books. History, science, mystery. And art. My parents went to bookstores and galleries. That was my perfect weekend as a kid. Dinner, the bookstore and the museum. Whenever my parents traveled they would go to galleries and bring back a special painting or two. My dads walls are covered with paintings, but to me they are reminders of moments in time. Boston, Santa Fe, Europe.

I think something that he did defined how I see parenthood. He had said something that hurt my feelings. I was in my room. I was sitting on my bed and he came in and sat with me. Then he apologized. To me. A kid. I felt ten feet tall and so loved at that moment. I think of that moment whenever I see my kids crumble if I snap or say something in anger. And I apologize.

 My dad had a temper. Nothing dangerous, just gruff. But he knew it was a weakness of his. His awareness led him to speak about it in church. I was so proud of him that day. I was picking through the cookies in the parish hall all the adults were milling around waiting for something, when I heard him speak. I couldn’t see him over the adults but I heard him. I was so proud of him. 

He is also sensitive. As a family we traveled to Atlanta to see The Rings exhibition at the High Museum. It was spectacular. They had gathered all sorts of incredible works of art from all of the world's best museums in celebration of the Olympics. I was looking at a painting of the arrest of Christ. I didn’t know, but my dad was behind me. Then I heard him. He stood and quietly explained what was happening. Asked me how that must have felt to be betrayed. Talked about the use of light to build tension. In the midst of the busy exhibition, he was so connected to the painting, the story, and his daughter. 

And now I see him with my mom. I see him visit her twice a day. Bring her flowers and plant them for her in the home's little garden. Send us pictures of her as a young woman and tell us how beautiful and special she is. He won’t leave her side. As much as I want him to try and remain in the world and go on with his life, he is. She is his life. And his family. And his friends. I hope he knows that we see all the sacrifices he has made. That I have a brighter soul because of him.