It has been nearly forty seven years since my father died and left me dazed, frightened and alone. My last blog entry described the process it took for me to let go of torturing myself; wondering if he loved me or not. I came to the conclusion that there is no way of ever getting a definitive answer to that question so I gracefully let it float away.

I think about my father in ways that are locked in time and space. Memories are all that I have had for almost five decades. These memories tend to become calcified and without movement. This is contrary to my connection with all those close to me who are still among the living. Those experiences take place in present time; are vibrant and clear.

I remember my father skating on a cold, sunny New Jersey late winter afternoon. He was calm, graceful and skillful; very much in his element of being outdoors. He tried to teach me to skate backwards, but I could never master that move. He grew tired of trying to instruct me and I tried really hard to be like him on the ice, but I could never measure up to his standards.

I am pretty sure of how this all went down, but it happened so long ago and he is not around to confirm or refute my version of events. I always feel like I am putting together a puzzle where half of the pieces were stolen and it is my quest to seek them out.

I remember when I had a bathroom accident on a bus coming back from New York City. I was in junior high and was feeling pretty humiliated and stinky. My father told me not to worry about it; that at times he had accidents on the train and it was not unusual for folks of any age to have this happen. He was reassuring and as time moved on without him, I long for more moments of reassurance and comfort but of course I could not get them from him because he was dead.

I walked in on my parents while they were in a tight embrace, listening to classical music in the den of our house. He really loved my mother very much and I wanted just a sliver of his tenderness, but time and circumstances wouldn’t allow it.

I recall him holding his head and having a pained look on his face. I never knew he was sick until the day he died. He had migraines and probably small strokes. The doctor knew he was sick, but didn’t do anything to save him.

He went on vacation one day; forgot to tell his bosses that he was going and was fired without any recourse.

He worked in a factory and they treated him like he was an expendable item that had no value. I was home from school for some reason and it was shocking to see him come through the door when he was supposed to be working.

He put black paint on my jeans when he put too much bleach in the wash. His odd behavior was not discussed. I’m sure my poor mother had no idea what to do. My family was left to deal with this tragedy on our own.

My mother came to my basketball practice with my sister; something she never did before. She had a look on her face that said something had happened that would negatively transform my life. My father was pulled over by the police for erratic driving. He was in the intensive care unit in St. Peter’s Hospital in New Brunswick.

The St. Peter’s officials would not allow us to see him; they felt that none of us should bear witness to a dying man in a hospital bed. My mother had to sneak in to see him. He died two days later.

The grave diggers were still at work preparing a hole in the earth for my father’s casket. The indignity of it all was not lost on this shocked teenager. The rabbi was aghast because my father didn’t have a Jewish name. They lowered him into the ground and I was numb for years.

The tragedy and the maltreatment of this working class man has filled me with rage. It gives me great affinity for all of us who go out and work for a living every day.

I learned later that my dad was on the verge of opening his own gardening supply store. He had a passion for planting; we had tomatoes and green beans every year.

At times I have been confused about whose life I have been living. I took over the heart of my father who couldn’t stand up for himself because he was sick and never found work that he actually truly cared about. I so much wanted him to succeed.

On some level I believed if I worked hard enough for me and him; that he would return to this earth. We would reunite and would live happily ever after. My long search would be over. I really wanted him to be happy and to erase the terrible ending of his life, but this is impossible. I don’t know if he really loved me, but I sure love him.

I look inside myself. I see the enraged teenager, the confused child, the calm woman and the wise man. Instead of either fighting for who is going to control the body or who is going to protect who; we all stand in a circle holding hands. This is a place that is now peaceful and a land where everyone feels safe enough to express their true feelings. This is a place of peace. I see my father enter the circle. He joins hands with the teenager and child. His eternal frown turns into a smile and we all cry at the joy of finding each other.

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