Words escape sometimes. Running off the page just as you’re about to pin them down. Not unlike thoughts, you do eventually find them again.
It’s been 93 days since I tried to compress my father into a 500-word article. It was a good hiatus because it taught me a little something about sharing.
Human nature likes to transfer experience, to share the impact of what is felt. Very rarely do we go a day without telling at least one person what we did. And when something is really important—our job, our aspirations, or our father—we want the people close to us to know about it.
But sometimes we can’t share what’s taken away.
Photos fall short, tales lose some truth in the retelling, and no amount of description satisfies all five senses.
I’ve met many people since Daddy left, but I was always afraid—that a person who hadn’t known him would tarnish my crystal clear memories, or their interpretation would dilute his essence.
So I kept him to myself—not sharing, not saying. It saddened me, but was safer than exposing Daddy to strangers.
Until one day I sat at the dinner table listening to my mom talk about her father (a grandfather I remember only from a few blurry memories). I realized then that as parents, there are so many things we won’t be able to fully share with the people who will matter most: our children.
I hung onto my mom’s words with an intensity I hoped might transform her memory into my reality, that I might actually know exactly how she felt. But time isn’t a language you can translate.
It might be good practice then, for those of us yet to be parents, to live with the contentment of being the only person to know our own experience. That even if no one says in return, ‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean’—we’ll still be happy for what we’ve done.
As parents of a generation growing up in an opposite world, it might be OK our children don’t know what it feels like to walk ten miles to school or wake up at the crack of dawn to make rotis.
It’s probably worthwhile then, to fill our present with as much happiness as possible so the joy can sustain us for years to come, when the same people may no longer be alive, or the circumstances no longer recognisable.
Only now can I see how Daddy did that, and in doing so, remained the gatekeeper of his own happiness. He took no offence if someone didn’t keep in touch, continued to give generously to those that took selfishly, and never saw himself a victim—be it of ill health, misfortune, or the death of his mother.
He didn’t dwell on the disappointment of what could have been, and instead expended energy on that which did.
He spent hours listening to music every night, discovering new artists and instruments. This was his favorite thing to do, but he always did it alone, enjoyed it thoroughly, and didn’t feel the need to explain it the next day.
Occasionally I’d slip out of bed at night to go sit next to him. His kept his eyes closed and not a word was uttered–but those were the moments that spoke volumes.
It carried us through trying times and uncomfortable conversations, a reminder that it was OK if nobody ever completely understood us. If another person couldn’t meet our expectations, they could still sit next to us while we found a way to.
It’s time I borrowed from that again, remembering that a feeling does not have to be cloned in order to be shared. If my future husband or children never know Daddy completely, at the very least his love will spill into their lives through me, and the happiness of my past will shape their future.
Content with this, I am now much less afraid to share him—knowing that telling others won’t change a relationship that will only ever be understood within my own heart.
I tried harder after that conversation with my mother to share more with new people, and soon found someone who created a safe space in which I could bring Daddy out. I began describing his details: his obsession with gadgets, Homer Simpson, and dark chocolate; the advice he’d give, the way he worked, and even the extreme slant in his handwriting.
I discovered that clear varnish could be painted on an already-finished work of art. For the first time someone referred to Daddy as my ‘pops’. It sounded foreign, but I liked it. I answered questions previously unasked. “Was your dad tall? Did he speak to you in English? What did he like to do on his birthday?” It was through this retelling that nothing was taken for granted.
I came to terms with the idea that though a new person wouldn’t catch the light creeping out of daddy’s eyes, they could laugh with him while watching his video. And though they would never speak to him, they might read these diaries as a conversation.
Not unlike my thoughts, and now my words, they would eventually find him again.
