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Morning Sunday, June 15, 2008

Posted by Grace in marble & holly.
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My father was a man in the old classical sense. Tall, broad shouldered, a man of few words, but words well said. He loved to be outdoors, to work with his hands, to be able to fix things and understand how they worked. His father died young, and leaving his mom (my grandmother) and two sisters, so he had a strong sense of needing to be there and provide for his family.

My mom tells stories about how when my brother and I were babies he was always scared that he would break us, so small and fragile in his large, calloused hands. That when we were still pretty brand new he would carry us like little footballs.

The last time I saw him, he came into my bedroom and woke me up. I was confused because it was still dark out. He hugged me and told me he loved me, tucked me back in and got up to leave.

My five-year-old mind was confused, I asked where he was going.

He told me that he was going away. Away to work? I asked. He didn’t answer.

I asked if I could come with him. He came back, sat down on the edge of the bed, and said, No, you can’t come with me Grace.

He stayed for a moment, kissed my forehead, and adjusted the covers. He would always adjust the covers after tucking me in because his strong hands would tuck me in too tight.

I remember hearing the click of my bedroom door closing after he left, the footsteps down the hallway, and after that it goes blank. I must have fallen back asleep. The next thing I remember is sitting in the basement watching The Land Before Time, and my mom coming downstairs and asking if I knew where he was.

Dad, I sometimes still wonder what would have happened if I had been more insistent, if I had tried harder to come with you. A part of me feels you would still be here if I hadn’t confusedly just let you leave. That you couldn’t have done what you did if you had me there, or if you had lingered a little longer with me.

The majority of the time I had with you, I was too young to remember. Still I miss you a lot on days like today.