It is Bitter and Sweet

I only have one clear, good memory of my father--a single memory that is unmarred by drug induced rages--and I cling to that memory amidst all the sour ones.  I cling to it as if my heart depends on it....and maybe it does.  You see, my father died when I was only 19. 

People say you are not supposed to speak ill of the dead and that is not my intention here, but I cannot make my father something he wasn't.  And truth be told he wasn't a very good father.  I don't think he knew how to be.  I don't think he was old enough when I was born to fully comprehend what fatherhood was supposed to be. I think sometimes, in rare moments of sober clarity, he tried to be a good father.  He would do something painfully sweet and thoughtful to show us he loved us....those moments were rare.

To say I had a complicated relationship with my father would be putting it mildly.  He was a drug addict and an alcoholic, prone to fits and a horrible temper.  My grandparents raised me and my father was not around much.  I cannot remember ever spending a singular father's day with him.  I cannot remember him ever being present on my birthday.  Sometimes he would call me a month late to wish me a Happy Birthday--if he remembered it at all.  This was the norm for me.  I cannot truly miss a father-daughter relationship I did not have--but I can miss what I wanted it to be.

My father could be a very charming man.  Women fell all over him--giggling and blushing, wanting to be with him.  He could do something awful and the next day be so charming and funny that you'd forgive him, forgetting why you were ever mad in the first place.  At least that's how it worked for most people--but not me.  I never forgot a thing and I never forgave him much either.

There was more bad than good between us, far more bitter than sweet.  But I have this one memory...this singular moment of bliss unmarred by the ugliness that so enveloped his life.  I was in kindergarten and I was sound asleep in my bed.  My brother was asleep in the bottom bunk.  It must have been 2 AM and it was a school night (for me at least).  My daddy came running into our room, shaking the beds and shouting, "Get up! Get up!  It's snowing!  Come on! It's snowing!"  And it was snowing--a rare occurrence in the part of North Carolina I've always called home.  It had been snowing for a while too and this snow had actually accumulated on the ground and on our swingset.   It sparkled silver in the moonlight and I remember thinking snow must be the most beautiful stuff in the whole world.

My brother and I were bundled up, wearing bulky coats over our pajamas.  I remember playing in the snow with my parents.  I remember my daddy laughing and pushing me on the swing.  I remember my brother ripping the socks off his hands (we didn't own gloves) to bury them in the snow and him looking up at me and saying, "It cold sissy! It cold!"  And it was cold.  But it was also perfect--perfectly normal. 

So today I cling to this one perfect memory of my father and I wish him peace.  Happy Father's Day Daddy.  You were what you were, but I love you anyway.