Three years ago on October 18th my biological father passed away. It was tough, we had spent a good amount of time together. We had things to work out. He had lied about how sick he was cause he didn't want me to worry. . .or anyone to for that matter.
It was a sad, hard day.
I wrote this just before he died and posted it on an old blog on the night he passed. I have been trying to figure out for a few weeks how to honor him and this anniversary. This is what I choose. . .
I miss you Daddy. . .I'm sorry we didn't have the time we needed...and that you didn't get to see how beautifully and brilliantly my children have grown. Thank you for those last few months, and for the honesty. I love you.
October 18th, 2006
My Dad is gone. He died this evening. You don't have to care. . .this isn't for you, it's for me. I don't know what to do. . .really. I feel empty and I feel sad and I do not feel like I thought I would. I do not feel like I said I would in the post previous. . . I miss him, already. And I am angry a little inside because he abandoned me. . .this last time. It hurts when you realize your parents are not invincable. I wrote this a little while back. . .and I find it appropriate. If you are wondering. . .I did get a chance. . .I did tell him. . .
My Dad is dying. He will always be dying, even if this cancer isn't what does it. He is alive and that is killing him. And living is killing me too. I am very suddenly aware of death. I am aware of aging and of the end and I am uncomfortable. I found the thing that makes me his, his daughter and his partial protégé. He is Peter Pan in cowboy boots. My father will never grow up. I used to think this was his flaw and now I wonder. It is funny that I took it with me, I missed all the stories and time and father-daughter things and yet I walked away with his desire to be a child forever. He is worried, he is doing chemo and it will ravage his body, but the first and only thing he said is "I will probably be bald when you see me next". His hair, that is what scares him, that is my Peter Pans weakness. When I was a child I wanted to grow up so much and I despised his flighty behavior and now I want nothing more than to be a rock star and make my Peter Pan proud.
He asked me to move close to him, he said he needs me. I am needed and I am still afraid. I want to go there and be near him and my fear of growing down still haunts me just a little. He sells things, he colored his own website where people can buy things that help them stay young. Like a little Neverland supply source. You go there to make your own costume, and people do it. Not enough for him, he needs more, but they do it. He wants everyone to stay young and play rock star and I find myself proud of him, as silly as he can be I hope he is successful. I need to give him something, some part of me to help him understand. I want for him to know that even while I was angry I still loved him. No matter how much my life went on I dreamed of Peter Pan and all the love I knew he had for me.
He gave me a jar once. He filled it with dozens and dozens of silver dollars and half dollars. It was really quite a feat. He really worked very hard at collecting them all. When I spent it all on candy he was delighted, my Peter Pan.
He stopped in on my life from time to time, always bringing Neverland with him. There were Christmas surprises from a man I barely new, who had the biggest piece of my heart. I dreamed sometimes, little dreams that children have, that one day he would fly away without letting go of my hand. That he would teach me how to never grow old. Everytime his fingers slipped from mine I let myself grow angry, it was a wicked bitterness that I could not be him or love him, not completely.
It's funny that I let him fuel me. I wonder if I grew up just to spite him. Maybe if I grew up he would come in and try to save me. I had my own Hook, a man with so much anger. My Dad would come and save me. I remember long nights and long fights when he would tell Hook that no matter what he did, he couldn't have me. He made me proud. He made me strong. He gave me little things that kept his place in my heart even when he left a vacancy in my life.
My Peter Pan wore black. It makes it easier to escape I think. He used to sing and those melodies still jump into my mind from time to time. They paint pictures still of beautiful women and love. I thought he was a God, I had no clue that he too had weaknesses. Funny, but I never thought for one minute that it was a choice. I never thought he left me behind on purpose. It always seemed to be a power other than his or mine that kept him. Now he stays in one place, out of dust perhaps. Maybe it is the cancer that has taken his ability to fly. I know for sure that it is not age. Nothing could age my Peter Pan, not even time. I just hope I have time, just a little, to resolve my childish anger and face the man whom I adored. I hope that I have a moment of absolute clarity, where I see him as I did at three, when he gave me the art set and inspired me to paint my own world and ignore little things like life and time and fear. I hope that that clarity comes before I cannot thank him, from the bottom of my heart, for the little bit of dust he left for me but never taught me how to use. I hope I can show him that I can grow younger, that I have not given up my childish wonderment. I hope that he will smile and call me sweetheart, and know way down that I forgive him and I love him, and even with time and loss I will never forget my Peter Pan.
Goodbye, Dad. I love you. . .always have. . .and you will be missed.
Amy
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