remembering a face

I go through this pile of photos and wonder, on that journey, which of these shows our real faces? Which one of these images is THE face of my father? Which one did he look like? The chubby grin in these images doesn’t always match up with my memory of the frowning man angry that I didn’t want to go to band practice or the expressionless man sitting in front of the TV.

I never heard enough of his voice. He was so quiet, in his chair, elbows perched on the arms and chin resting in hands. And now, I strain to imagine his face, but I will never hear that voice again. I avoided that voice, and now it’s gone save for the imprint of him starting off a song: “ONE ! TWO!”

What did he really look like? Not just the man but the father… MY father? He’s not that skinny guy with dark hair who predates my arrival. I suppose he was thin for a bit, but I mostly remember his round torso what seemed to be balancing on two legs as though they were stilts. He had sideburns. I’d tickle one side of his face and he’d reach up and scratch the opposite one. I remember tugging on his nose and he’d make funny noises. We’d do this dance where I’d stand on the tops of his feet while he walked. He let us ride him around like a horse. He musta thought we were just great.

Until we weren’t.

When did I stop letting him be my dad and inherit someone else’s ideas about him as my own? By 15, I was ashamed to be like him. No, not ashamed, afraid. Every trait like him that I had I tried to undo. I felt bad when I empathized with things he said that supposedly hurt mom’s feelings. It was all very mixed up and it’s entirely possible that I’m romanticizing the whole lot now. We weren’t that much alike, really. But he was my dad. He loved to play; I think he liked having small children around and would have been good in some capacity where he could have played more. Did he slip into depression when we were too big to play? Did he think the solution lay in focusing in on himself, rather than learning to reach out? No, I can be quite like him… just as selfish.

I keep one photograph of my parents on my desk. It’s been on my desk wherever I’ve moved since my first week in Cambridge. They were putting me onto an Amtrak back to New York City in the Spring of my sophomore year. They always had a tendency to follow me while I was boarding whatever vehicle and watch for as long as possible. Mom still does it. After going through airport security in Buffalo I now know to look back over the 25 feet of bodies hastily taking off shoes and uniformed guards to see that whitish, boney hand rising above the mass. One last wave goodbye.

Well on this particular morning I found my seat and looked out the window. Yup, there they were. I was so eager to be on my own way back to my city and my school and my own realm that it annoyed me a bit, the following thing. But this time I saw them out there and… A HA! I grabbed out my new Pentax and took aim. They saw me lift the camera and assumed a physical closeness. It was long before the cancer, long before the ageing really set in. Mom is wearing some coat I discarded in high school and her hands contort with the weight of the purse she carries. The buttons on Dad’s coat strain across his belly. He’s got that cute dad smile on his face. A few minutes later the train pulled out and I was blissfully off to the big city, leaving them to their worry.

Today I have lived in Chicago 5 years. In between Boston and Chicago I lived for two days without a state. I drove through that place called ‘home’ and dropped off a bunch of stuff which, to a large measure, still sits there. That was one of the last times I saw my father.

From the end of their driveway to all points west was a big unknown to me both physically and emotionally. Graduate school? What did that mean? Chicago? What did that mean? Where would I be living? The withdrawal of leaving my secure home, car, job and boyfriend was just about to hit me. But just shy of that moment, there I was saying goodbye to dad. He had shrunken in to such a tiny form that it was hard to believe he was still in there. From the husk ringed with a white halo of hair poked those two green eyes. I sat down next to him, in his big daddy chair; I could have fit into it next to him again like back when I was four. When I hugged him goodbye we were both crying, not sure we’d see each other again on this side of the Styx. I wish I could remember what he said or what I said. But I can’t. I just remember how it felt.

That’s just it. I don’t remember a face for him. But I remember a feeling and that feeling always seemed to be “goodbye”.