In Memory of

When I woke up this morning, I had an idea of how I would spend the anniversary of my ­father’s death. I imagined it to be the kind of day straight out of a movie, as if I should have a voice-over narrating the events.

I imagined Don ­LaFontaine’s voice booming, “In memory of her ­father’s passing, she set out for the beach house where he spent his final days on earth.” Only things ­didn’t go quite the way I ­imagined.

Today was one of those beautiful San Diego days where I could get away with wearing a light sundress and thin sweater. ­That’s what I was wearing when I arrived in Mission Beach at 9:45 a.m. When I neared the house, I saw a shirtless guy with a sketchpad sitting on the porch. I paused in front of him, straining to see inside the tiny rental unit. I ­don’t know what I thought I would see. Maybe a small memento from our time there, the pale pink shovel my daughter used while building her sandcastles or a shell that one of the boys had picked off the beach. Nothing seemed familiar. I looked at the dirty sand bucket inside the gate and remembered vacuuming the endless pebbles of sand that the kids trekked in while my dad was sleeping in the other ­room.

All at once, I remembered what it felt like during his final days. I recalled the moment he stopped eating altogether and the quiet panic we all felt. I remembered his freshly shaven face the day my brother spent an hour gently applying shaving cream and working a razor across our ­dad’s unusually stubbled face. I felt the beauty of that moment all over again. I recalled the gentle and cheerful way my children sat with their grandfather, singing songs and laughing, my ­sister’s warm-hearted humor and the artful way she made my dad feel so at ease. I felt my ­mom’s strength and beauty, the way she lovingly washed his body after he passed. It all came back heavy and hard like a fresh sadness, not one that I had carried with me for the past 365 ­days.

Before he died, I had an idea of what it would feel like when he passed. I thought about it. I even imagined it. When it happened, it was nothing like I expected. I felt guilty for being so sad. It must have something to do with my Catholic upbringing. Catholics ­aren’t one for outward displays of emotion. We are rigid by nature. I felt ashamed by my grief. I ­didn’t allow myself to mourn. It felt selfish to be ­upset.

I was robotic in my actions. The day after my ­dad’s death, I got the kids ready for school as usual. I icily told their teachers that their grandfather had died and we would be leaving for his funeral within a few days. That same day I attended my 9:15 anthropology class and behaved as if it were just another day until my teacher took out the skull of a monkey. She passed it around the room for us to hold. I thought about my ­dad’s brain and the tumors that spread everywhere. I imagined the size and shape of his tumors. I started feeling woozy. I stumbled out of class and threw up in the bathroom. I sat like a stone on the bench outside of my anthropology room for the next hour, waiting for the students to filter out so I could get my stuff. On the car ride home, I allowed myself to cry. I cried big gulping sobs until my face was red and swollen. I ­didn’t send my kids to school the following day. I gave myself permission to let the sadness ­in.

For a while, I dreamt about him nightly. In my sleep, we would spend the day together. We would walk together through the forest preserves outside of Chicago. We would pick shells along Pacific Beach, or he would push my daughter on the swing at the park or play with my boys in the sand. In my dreams, he was healthy. ­It’s been a while since he has made an appearance. Now when I dream of him, ­it’s always vague. Recently I dreamt that I was playing softball, and he was in the bleachers way in the back covered up by a blanket. I could only see the dim outline of his ­profile.

­It’s been a year since I have last touched his hand or spoke with him. ­It’s been a year since I last told him how much I loved him. Today I realized that I ­don’t remember the sound of his voice. I can picture his face. I know that the lines running across his palms are almost identical to mine, with wide sweeping indents that create an upside-down triangle on the underside of his hands. I can still picture the pink scar running halfway up his leg from a glass window that fell on him in an office building in Chicago. I recall the softness of the gray sweater he often wore and what it felt like to hug him. But I ­can’t remember the staccato of his voice. For a long time I had a recorded birthday message from him on my phone, but I carelessly erased it one afternoon. The machine was full, and in an effort to get rid of the many voices of telemarketers and dental appointment reminders, I erased the only memento of his ­voice.

I am uncertain of how long I stood before the beach house, but I think the dude on the porch thought I was flirting with him. He smiled a big toothy smile. I blushed, embarrassed for losing myself in the moment, and walked ­on.

I decided not to sit on the beach in front of the house, figuring shirtless man may think it was some sort of invitation. Instead, I found a bench nearby and watched the waves. On the balcony behind me was a pasty, pale redhead in a dingy tank top with another shirtless ­man.

“Dude, I am so hungover,” he told the ­redhead.

She laughed, while I tried to block them out. I cursed them for ruining my moment! I expected a little more decency today of all days. I ­wasn’t asking for porch dwellers with violins, but I had been hoping for a little peace and ­quiet.

“I miss that bitch!” I heard the man behind me ­say.

“Who? Your ex-wife?” the redhead ­asked.

He grunted, “Yes.”

­“It’s okay to miss her,” she ­said.

“You know I still have our wedding pictures,” he ­replied.

­“It’s important to hold on to memories, as long as you ­don’t hold on too tightly,” she told ­him.

It was as if she was speaking directly to me. I wanted to shout out “thank you” and maybe even “sorry” for judging you so quickly. It may not have been Don LaFontaine or a lady with a violin, but the redhead and her hungover friend spoke exactly what I needed to ­hear.

My day remembering my dad may not have turned out exactly as I would have expected, but nonetheless it was perfect. I sat quietly on the beach taking in the sound of the water and the murmur of a hungover dude and his rebound girlfriend while thinking of my dad. I ­couldn’t have asked for ­more.