June
In November, I insist on taking a walk through my parents’ neighborhood, the same 4-mile route I’ve taken alone nearly every day of the past month I’ve been staying with them. My brothers are at the house this morning, along with my mom, and later, we’ll be joined by my sister and her partner. Cousins and family friends will stop by with food and tears and stories. Some will stop by with condolences and questions. But right now, it is still the morning. I tell my brothers I’ve never gone further than a certain point—I always turn around after reaching a particular fork or tree. E says we should go further. Why not? We walk the path in the middle of two opposing streets, a tree-filled city oasis. It’s gloomy outside, overcast and drizzling. Appropriate. At the point I’ve never gone past, a giant tree has been chopped down, the wood of its body left in large chunks along the trail. E thinks it makes a picturesque setting and sets us up for two photos. In the first, E and I sit on the stumps, while R leans against one of the remaining trees. The sky is gray, the trees betray our relative smallness. We look, collectively, like we’ve been through something. We look like we’re a little unsure of what comes next. E resets the camera, one of us makes a joke. In the second photo, the sky looks white, not gray. I’m still sitting, but now E is standing with a playful expression on his face. R and I are smiling. We’ve still been through something. We still don’t know what’s coming next.
“The children will be all right,” our dad had said not even 48 hours earlier, speaking to us and not-us. Now, seven months later, looking at the second photo feels like it might just be proof of his words, proof of our ability to find joy in life and in each other, even with the ever-present knowledge that one of us is missing.
After my dad died, I started having dreams where he was alive, but dying. Various ailments would bloom from my subconscious. Sometimes he would die in my dream and I would wake up and remember he was really dead. Sometimes he would live, a miracle, and I’d wake up and remember he was really dead. I couldn’t seem to remember very much about my dad outside of the final two months he was alive. My mind would go to the last moments I saw him, over and over, playing on a loop. I worried I’d never remember more of him, that we’d be stuck at the end for the rest of my life. I got seven more years with my dad than he got with his parents and I suppose I should be pleased with that, a generational improvement, but I really just wish we all got more time.
Some things loosen. In May, as I stir oat milk and butter and sugar and flour into batter, as I pour strawberries and their sticky-sweet syrup on top, I think about my sweet tooth as an inheritance. If left uninhibited, I seek out sweetness in the way my dad often did—compulsively. While he was alive, I would point out this compulsion to him and we’d argue about whether or not fruit counted (I said yes; he said it was just fruit and would pile it on his plate). I would talk about the ways I restrained myself: not buying sweets, not making sweets. But in May, I think of sweetness as something to be savored, of the times I joyfully made cakes and cookies and cobblers that would fill us both up.
My dad loved music—jazz and gospel, soul and blues, Afrobeat and funk. All of my siblings, we’ve inherited this too—an affinity for a smooth sound, a dance-worthy beat, something that makes you feel.
My dad loved art, filling the house with it. He loved words. He loved taking photos, documenting our lives (ask anyone who’s ever been caught posing for a picture as he told us, “Wait, just one more.”). He believed in creating memories. He loved discussing and debating politics. He loved caring for people.
My dad was the only person in the world who would answer my call pretty much whatever time it was, no matter what he was doing. “It’s my baby,” I’d hear him say to whoever he was conversing with before I called. “Can I call you back?” he’d ask softly if he’d answered in church or at an event. “Hi baby!” he’d exclaim when it was just him, or he’d start saying my very full name, plus all the oriki that comes after, and then, if he got through it without me interrupting him, ask, “How’s my baby doing?” Even while in the hospital, with machines chiming in the background, he’d said, “Hey baby, I promised I’d call you back.”
My dad was a consummate extrovert. He’d happily spend hours on the phone with one person, then get off just to talk to another. He’d likely be the last one to arrive at your party, but he’d also be the last one to leave. Speaking of parties, apparently he used to throw some crazy ones back in the day—the kind that people still talk about decades later. He could make friends wherever he went. “Once you meet me, you’ll never forget me,” he’d say. For the most part, I am not like this. And yet, he would also say, “My claim to fame is I’m Abigail’s dad.”
My relationship with my dad was often complicated. I feel like I couldn’t see him as a human trying his best until he died. And it doesn’t negate the fact that sometimes his best wasn’t good enough for me. But sometimes it was also more than enough.
In June, my therapist says that when a person dies, all that’s left is love. Any complication experienced in life no longer exists on their end. This, to me, is a comforting idea. That my dad now has the ability to see me completely, even the parts I hid(e), and that he loves me anyway.
I’ve been taking time to look at the two photos all week, fascinated. I only have one more photo from that day (evidence of the fact that I had to pay to get out of the parking lot at the hospital after claiming my dad’s body with my brother). Life changed for us that day in a way that it’s changed for so many people across time. Death is at once collective and singular. I’m sure I’ll be processing the fact of it for the rest of my life. But on this first Father’s Day without my dad, I just wanted to bring a little bit of him back to me, and send a little bit of him out to you. (Anita Baker’s “Giving You the Best That I Got” started playing on my Daily Mix. Appropriate.)
Here’s a live 1967 performance of “What’d I Say” by Ray Charles, one of my dad’s favorite musical artists (a fun story behind how this song came to be is that it was completely ad-libbed during a performance where Charles had finished running through his set and still had time to fill. Talk about artistry—his, as well as the singers and musicians who were able to so seamlessly follow his lead!):
Whatever emotions this day may bring for you, I hope they’re also served up with a large dose of sweetness. 💜