The Importance of a Paper Trail

Sometimes, I still miss my dad.

But it's not as simple as "I wish he was here."

My dad was "never wrong," and therefore never apologized. He lacked empathy; whatever complaints you had, he'd had it worse. He skirted depth, and was skilled at keeping conversations surface-level. He exuded self-righteousness. He was particular, self-absorbed, argumentative, and not very relatable. Basically, he could be kind of a prick... especially to his family, the ones who loved him most.

For the longest time after my dad passed, I remember being angry with God. Not for taking my dad. Oh no, that was kind of a relief, in a lot of ways. No... I was mad that my dad might never realize he was wrong.

"He's no longer here, God... but does he get a chance to reflect on his life and see how much of a d*ck he was? Are you going to make him feel bad for all the pain he inflicted - on me, on my sister, on my mom? When I die someday, will he get a chance to tell me how sorry he is that he didn't do better? Don't tell me he gets off scot-free."

So when I say I miss my dad, what I really mean is I still long for a redemption arc. I still wish he could apologize. I wish he could love me the way I needed him to.

It's not always that complicated, though. Sometimes I just miss having someone to get excited about Cyclone football games with. Other times, I just want to be able to show him my house, and my career, and my dog. I think he'd be really proud of those things (and I so wish he could help me with house projects; he would've been really supportive in that way, and he always would've known just what to do). I wish he could see how I've grown as a person in the last seven years.

I'm not naïve. I don't believe that more time would have somehow fixed all our problems, or made us both better at talking. It probably wouldn't have changed anything. But the worst part about this grief, is that the option is gone. There's an entire dad branch within my soul that is just "dead" now.

As flawed as he was, my dad always did a great job of remembering important days and writing from his heart in cards. Toward the end, he could hardly hold a pen... but that didn't stop him. I still remember the last card he wrote to me. His handwriting was painstaking and a jagged shadow of what it used to be, but it was there, and I valued how much time it must have taken him to put his thoughts to paper. He showed his love in unorthodox ways.

That card is buried somewhere, but I did find this simple note he left me before going on a bike ride once. His handwriting was already faltering, even then. It's not much to look at, but it keeps a small part of him alive for me.

-J