My daddy could fix anything, but he still can’t fix the my broken heart when he left me five years ago today. I wouldn’t say we were close, but then again, I wouldn’t say Daddy was close to anyone. His early life was filled with rejection, and it would’ve made some people cruel. It made my daddy quiet, introspective, often critical, but more than being critical of others, he was deeply critical of himself. He was not wanted, the product of a rape. The man whom he called daddy never wanted him, his mother a mere child herself. He had to work while his half siblings played. His childhood was nothing compared to the one he gave me. You could tell he wasn’t raised in a loving home because he never hugged or said I love you. Momma was the one who did all that and she would say You know your daddy loves you. And we did know.
I don’t think I knew how much until I began writing this blog talking about all the ways Daddy showed his love. Five years now my precious daddy has been gone. I look up at the Flag that was draped on his casket. I see his pictures throughout my house, beautiful memories all. I look at my beautiful home realizing that I only have what I have because of the hard work of my daddy. I can’t stop crying because I just love him so much I can’t contain it. I want to do something to make him proud of me, to make his sacrifices worthy. I want to go back in time and rescue him from his family. I just want to be with my daddy.
I want to lie in his arms as a child again. Kiss his bald head. Smell his Old Spice and Daddy smell. Watch him tinker on something out in the out building. Drive him somewhere. Have him pick me up from somewhere. Talk to him in the living room. Watch a western with him. Reassure him that Momma was going to be okay. Hold his hand. Dance with him. Watch him play with my kids. Watch him mow the yard. Yell at me for breaking a contact lens. Listen to my boss tell him some bullshit story that my daddy knew was bullshit. Watch him play pool with Brother. Watch him eat with his mouth open. Listen to him play guitar. Run into my bedroom in his underwear when I saw a mouse. Swim with me in a pool when I was little. Go on a ride with me at the park. Clean up my mess when momma got mad. Call me the baby. Always.
I think there’d be something wrong with me if I didn’t miss all the wonderful things about my daddy. Not everyone gets a good daddy. He wasn’t perfect & I wish we’d talked more but I learned just in time to love him as he was. Last week I dreamed he and I were hugging and it was so good. He really relaxed into the hug, more so even than he did before he died.
There have been many, many times that I have felt my daddy since he passed. I think he was worried about me. I know that’s not practical theology but it’s what I feel. Relationships aren’t perfect, and I can’t say ours was. If I could see him again, he wouldn’t talk any more than he ever did about his feelings or his pain, his sorrow or burdens. But he had them.
I feel so much closer to my daddy since I stopped trying to make him be a stereotypical dad and just loved him for who he was and then after his death, found all the ways he showed and showed his love to me.