Memorial

It's late and I should either be sleeping or applying for jobs. But I'm not going to. I meant to write this post for Memorial Day, but that didn't happen. Such is life.

Tonight, however, I found myself bawling. I was emptying the last of the boxes of books piled up in my living room, trying to get things put away. I came upon a number of books that I recognized as gifts. I would look into the inside cover to see if there was any inscription or note written, thinking that I need to be better about writing something when I give a book as a gift. I found a book that I recognized as a Christmas gift from my dad. The book was a reprint of four Charles Dickens novels in an antique-style leather binding with gold-leafed pages. Classy look. I discovered the inscription written in the distinctive mostly-CAPS scrawl of my father, and then started to cry.

"Dear Son, I hope you enjoy receiving this book as I enjoyed finding it for you!!
I love Dickens,
I hope you do....

Merry Christmas
Love
Dad 04"

I felt so overwhelmingly loved at that moment (and again now as I reread it), and that feeling of incredible warmth and love was followed by the cold touch of loss. I felt a special connection with my father at that moment, a connection that could not be replicated by a sibling, a lover, or a friend. No matter how much love you might have for that person, it wouldn't be the same. There wouldn't be the same pride and joy of sharing something that you love (in this case Dickens) with your child. I realized that no one else can call me Son. I haven't heard that in a long time. And it struck me that this was from the very last Christmas we spent together.

I miss my parents. And I don't give enough credit to my father. There is no one else in my life who I could spin tales with like my dad. No one to talk about the war with, to discuss art, to learn to cook from. He had so much to offer. He was charismatic, loving, and incredibly talented. I had a lot to learn from him.

And on this Memorial Day, watching a parade and surrounded by red, white, and blue, I did not feel patriotic. I thought of my father and his service to our country and felt angry. Angry that it changed his life so dramatically. Angry that my life and my mom's life and my family's life might have been so different. Angry that he was left without support when he returned and left to carry the burden of the savageness of war that he witnessed as a young man all on his own, a burden he passed on to his family. And mostly angry that he had no choice. He is a fallen soldier. He might not have died in Vietnam, but he was infected.

I speak for myself, because I know that he caused a lot of pain for a lot of people, but he was a good man. And he was a good father. I feel as though the best years were yet to come. I miss him so much. I miss his jokes and stories, his laugh. I miss the look of pride in his eyes when he saw me. Seeing him wearing a Vanderbilt jacket. I miss saying the word "Dad" and hearing the word "Son."

I am tired of losing people I love. I am tired of loss. I feel lonely tonight. I long for fullness.