A Walk Down Memory Lane
Lately, I have been thinking about my dad. He died when I was 24, which is now 15 years ago, though he died in September and my birthday was just a few days ago. So, I was 24 and a half. He was 47, just barely.
I miss him so much. He never got to experience Seinfeld or the internet or being a grandpa. And that's just the beginning of all he missed.
But this is not about missing him. This is about the time he took me out to have pie.
When I was about 10 years old, he invited me to go with him to have a piece of pie. This invitation struck fear into my cautious little heart. My dad had never taken me anywhere alone. He worked the graveyard shift and slept all day and hardly ever sat at the dinner table with us. I was a little scared of him because he was a tall man who was never home. He was stoic and unaffectionate.
And then he wanted to take me out to eat pie. I was suspicious because I'd already found a spiral bound steno pad under the couch with my mother's handwriting in it. There were two columns: "His" and "Hers." She had divided up their meager possessions into these two lists. I realized with horror what this list must mean, but I shoved it back under the couch without a word and figured if I pretended I hadn't seen it that my world would not spontaneously combust. But, of course, I was wrong.
On the way to the restaurant, my dad asked if I'd prefer to eat or talk first. I said eat. So, I choked down pie. I can't remember any small talk. I can't even remember the pie. What I cannot forget, though, is my dad telling me that he and my mother would be getting a divorce. "We still love you," he said. As if that made the catastrophe somehow better. Yes, your world will collapse, but we still love you. Okay, then. I will just stay here buried under the rubble while you love me. Thanks so much.
I used his hankerchief to wipe my tears and snot. You'd think that a father informing his daughter about his divorce from her mother would remember to bring a box of tissues, but no. He was not the kind of dad who would think of that.
They were divorced when I was 11. And I'm still not a big fan of pie
I miss him so much. He never got to experience Seinfeld or the internet or being a grandpa. And that's just the beginning of all he missed.
But this is not about missing him. This is about the time he took me out to have pie.
When I was about 10 years old, he invited me to go with him to have a piece of pie. This invitation struck fear into my cautious little heart. My dad had never taken me anywhere alone. He worked the graveyard shift and slept all day and hardly ever sat at the dinner table with us. I was a little scared of him because he was a tall man who was never home. He was stoic and unaffectionate.
And then he wanted to take me out to eat pie. I was suspicious because I'd already found a spiral bound steno pad under the couch with my mother's handwriting in it. There were two columns: "His" and "Hers." She had divided up their meager possessions into these two lists. I realized with horror what this list must mean, but I shoved it back under the couch without a word and figured if I pretended I hadn't seen it that my world would not spontaneously combust. But, of course, I was wrong.
On the way to the restaurant, my dad asked if I'd prefer to eat or talk first. I said eat. So, I choked down pie. I can't remember any small talk. I can't even remember the pie. What I cannot forget, though, is my dad telling me that he and my mother would be getting a divorce. "We still love you," he said. As if that made the catastrophe somehow better. Yes, your world will collapse, but we still love you. Okay, then. I will just stay here buried under the rubble while you love me. Thanks so much.
I used his hankerchief to wipe my tears and snot. You'd think that a father informing his daughter about his divorce from her mother would remember to bring a box of tissues, but no. He was not the kind of dad who would think of that.
They were divorced when I was 11. And I'm still not a big fan of pie
posted by Melodee at Monday, February 02, 2004
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