Today marks five years without dad.
I debated writing about it, but it’s so difficult to think of something profound to say about grief. There just isn’t anything I want to say along that line. Yet, since this blog was begun as a way of writing through grief if not about grief–objects not feelings, or not morbid introspection–I’ve decided to write about things. Specifically these photos. On mother’s day, my mother went frantically digging through the chest of pictures that’s also the bedside table in my bedroom at her house. She wanted pictures of both my grandmothers to post on Facebook. There was a specific picture of Laverne, dad’s mom, that she couldn’t lay hands on. I pulled down the baby book–she forgot that she only gave me one of them–and quickly located the picture she wanted.
It’s not like I look through my baby book on a regular basis, so I took a moment to flip through it again. Dad wasn’t much for pictures, which I assume is where I get that instinct to duck from, but these are some of my favorite of me and him.
I have young parents; I think I’m between one and two in these pictures, so dad isn’t older than 24 here. In many ways, they were just kids themselves figuring out how to parent me. I’m pretty sure I’m the worst leaf helper in the world here. Dad used to wake me up to watch Looney Tunes, which is how I originally learned classical music. He was goofy, with a wicked and often inappropriate sense of humor. I learned to appreciate cars, cooking, all things British, and Christmas from him.