To My Dad, 40 Years After His Death,

That night comes back to me in segments not bound by time. Loose images that land in my mind. Hard raindrops and wind, shields of rain that fell slanted, what mama said is hurricane rain. Conversations of loosely connected words that to this day do not make sense. An image of touching the top of the tent to test to see if it really would leak as I heard it would. I am not sure if this ever happened, but it seems like it did. I can see my brother testing this out because he needed to know. There are dark moments that fill my memory. That night I remember the rain, the wind, the lightning, and my sister looking into the sky and saying, “Daddy is dead.” It was June 17, 1979 and my father had suddenly died in the middle of the night. I was 9 and a half years old.

My memories of my father are darker and more nebulous. They, too, are not strung with time but images. My father cooking steaks on an old grill he filled with Kingsford charcoal and way too much lighter fluid. My brother and I drinking a coca cola (in the little glass bottles) at the water plant where he worked and us rolling down a hill right outside the tall brick building. I remember the smell of that building, which was huge in my memory. Most of my memory comes from old photographs, my daddy with his dark black hair and his black shoes; I remember his black shoes. I remember him sitting in an old lawn chair out back, with only the fire end of a cigarette defining the space, when he took a deep puff. There are memories that I still am trying to fit into the sequence of time.

I miss the fact that I cannot recall memories that others can. I regret that I did not live milestones with my dad. I learned to tie a tie watching JR Ewing on Dallas. I vividly remember watching intently as JR tied his tie and I studied that scene over in my mind until I could tie my own. I remember when I was older standing before a classroom of students, and Matthew, a student, said, “You have your belt on wrong.” What is the right way to wear a belt? I miss the memories.

Now that I am older and a father myself. Sometimes all these images come flooding back to me, again in fragmented moments not tied to time. The other day I was in a store helping my son (now as tall as I am) find a dress shirt to wear to his dance. I undid every piece of the packaging on that shirt to hold it up to his back to see how it would fit. Like me, he doesn’t want to try it on. Holding that shirt against his back was a memory that I missed. I wish I knew the feeling of my father’s hands holding a shirt to my back or tying my tie while he faces me. Tying three times because the first time it was just awkward, the second time he would tie it as if for himself and it would not look right in me, but the third time he would master it. I have watched my son play soccer, baseball and basketball. I have watched my daughter in her dance competitions and performing on the dance team, making sure I am there to see nearly every one of them. I have longed for a dad to be proud of me.

I mourn the fact that I do not know what being a father is like and I had to figure it out with no models or no reference points of what it feels to be fathered.

Sometimes I look at my own children and just mourn. I mourn the fact that my dad did not see me and he was not given the opportunity to be proud. I mourn that my dad could not see me graduate high school, go to college, get married, go to graduate school, and he could not see the birth of his grandchildren, and know the pure joy that they are. I mourn the fact that I do not know what being a father is like and I had to figure it out with no models or no reference points of what it feels to be fathered.

It is hard losing a parent at such a young age. It is hard as a kid talking about your dad in past tense. You do not know the questions to ask or know the answers you seek because those questions and answers are wrapped up in experiences. As a child without a father, you go into those experiences, tying a tie, putting on a belt, polishing your shoes, shaving with or against the beard (?), changing a tire, with an eagerness to take a rite of passage and a longing for a memory, a tiny little moment of mourning, again.

I sometimes feel guilty loving my kids as much as I do, but I do not want them to be able to write a narrative from the darkest corners of loss. I want them to remember that I hugged them, that I was there when they lost that big game or I was there on the first day of school. I want them to know that I helped them through countless hours of homework. They need to see me riding along as they learn to drive in rush hour traffic. They need to hear me when things just don’t go right that I am in their corner. They need to see me as center of experience. I do not blame my dad, for he did not ask to die so tragically on Father’s Day in 1979. I do not blame him at all. Though the memories that I do have are not always positive, and the memories from my older siblings aren’t either, I would have liked him to be here, for life has a funny way of turning people around.

But dad, on this 40th year after your death, I want you to know we are OK. You have 9 beautiful grandchildren. Two of them are mine. I walked across a stage twice—well, I did not go to my master’s ceremony— to get a diploma (I know you were very smart and I think you would value education!). We took care of mama as best we could. In the end, we had a good life. There were bumps, but there was always laughter. I know that you were witty also. I did learn to tie a tie, shine my shoes, and thanks to Matthew put on my belt the right way. I had to learn to drive a stick shift. That was fun. All of us, my siblings and I, made something of ourselves and are able to live independently, so that is a good thing. We moved from Rocky Mount, when I was 11. Middle School was rough for me, but I made it. High School was just a stepping stone to get to where I needed to be. I was indifferent to it. I did not go to Carolina—I got waitlisted—but I remember how you liked the Tar Heels, and I still am avidly watching. Your grandson loves the Tar Heels as does your granddaughter. You would be proud of how much she knows about basketball. Your oldest son did not see the light and he is an NC State fan. I did go to East Carolina University, and it was almost a Thomas Woolfe-ian experience of traveling back home to eastern North Carolina, which I still have fondness for. I love to cook, read and write. I was an English teacher for several years and then went on to be a school administrator. I think about you every Christmas (more often, but really then). Oddly, some of the most vivid memories are those of Christmas. I know how visibly irritated that you became when the lights were all tangled. To be honest, I just throw them away after I spend about 5 minutes trying to figure out the problem. I have begun to piece the loose memories together to tell our story.

Dad, I am glad I have been able to do these things with my kids, and I am sorry that you could not. I often think about what life would be like had you lived that horrible, rainy night 40 years ago. It would likely be some version of the above, maybe. I do not really know. I know we all have our own narratives, and this is the one that I was destined to have, and I know that we are interlocked in humanity and we influence in some ways the narratives of those around us.

I have been through a lot, Dad. I have also been blessed beyond measure, and pray my kids can link their narratives chronologically.