Joy - My Father Never Told Me

 

 

  

My father never told me that he was the best one of all. He didn’t cheat or hit or drink or lie or fail. Not ever. He occupied himself with things that mattered to him from sun-up, stopping only in the evening for a hearty meal and an hour or so of precious nothing-doing before falling into the heavy sleep of those who spent the day changing the world somehow.

 

 

 

 

My father never told me he was faithful to my mother — not because of a devoted, undying and lasting love between them, but because such moral defiance would never cross his mind. He didn’t need to tell me such things, and I didn’t need to ask. He wouldn’t leer at or flirt with young women the way many of my friends’ fathers and fathers’ friends would do – still do – with me. He didn’t tell me that his integrity was suspended high above that of most mortals, and therefore I came to expect that everyone possessed such character. My father never told me I couldn’t trust everyone.

 

 

 

 

My father never told me why he worried about me, why he was over-protective, why he had so many silly rules, why he wanted me safe and close. He only told me that he wanted me near, he only asked me why I felt the need to spend every night out with my friends, or later, when I’d moved out of his house, when the next time would be that he’d see me. My father didn’t tell me we didn’t have a whole lifetime to spend together.

 

 

 

 

My father never told me he would disappear so quickly, completely, and without warning, with so much left unsaid. But he did, somehow. He did tell me. Because I never doubted that that was the precise moment in history he was supposed to go. He told me clearly that it was the best thing he could have hoped for – cashing out hastily, before age or infirmity could even slightly compromise his strong hands, his sharp reflexes, his analytical mind, his strength in the eyes of the world.

 

 

 

 

He’d never told me things so clearly as he did from the other side, from the moment of his passing – comforts and assurances that fortified me so that I could be there for those who did not hear him and could only feel the void of his absence. And when later he told me to leave them, that I’d done what I could and now it was time for me to go, to live my own dreams thousands of miles away, I could leave with a mind that was clear and open to whatever was to come – just as I’m certain he did.

 

 

 

 

My father never told me why he clung to me so tightly in this life, and even when I came to understand I never told him, never thanked him.

 

 

 

 

Here we are now, though, my father and I, dimensions apart and suspended in perfect understanding, perfect freedom, perfect love.