My Dad

I have always been my Daddy's girl, forever and for ever. I don't tell him enough, or ever, how deeply my attachment to him resides. I don't know if I need to; I think he knows. He was always always the good guy, the one who cuddled and laughed and played. I haven't forgotten a single childhood regular event: riding on his back all over the living room, wrestling and rough-housing until he finished with The Claw on my face and a massive tickling session. While Mom played word games with me all day long, it was Dad who read books to me every night. He played catch with me all summer in the yard, made me read the newspaper, taught me about current events and was always my biggest fan. 
     I admire my father's infinite patience, his easy smile, his compassion, his intelligence,  and his unwavering commitment to my Mother and our family. 
In the months since we lost my mom, my dependence on him seems to be multiplying. He's the only one to tell my stories to, the only one with my whole heart and history imprinted on his own. He knows how I feel about pretty much everything before I have to say it. 
     He would never tell anyone that he's as good a writer, or better, than I am. No one would guess that he's a walking Encyclopedia of everything from Andy Griffith to foreign policy. He knows something about almost everything, and says nothing unless you ask him. 
     Once, when I went over to see my Mom in the nursing home, after she had lost the ability to speak, I paused outside her door. It was open just a little. Dad was sitting in the chair next to her bed. He was holding her hand, she was just looking at him, silently. He was just looking right back, gazing quietly into her eyes. I stood there for a long minute, unwilling to interrupt this moment. One of the CNAs walking down the hall paused next to me and whispered,  "He sits like that, with her, a lot. Just looking at each other, no words. I hope somebody loves me like that someday." I had to leave; I walked outside, sat in my car and cried for twenty minutes. My dad loves me a powerful lot. He loved my Mom even more and I can't even describe in words what it felt like to be raised in a family like that. I am so lucky, and I know it. I don't take it for granted for a single second.
     The pictures from my childhood were largely taken by my mother; she hated being in them, so she always took them. I have dozens of favorites of me and my Dad. My favorite recent photo is this one, taken at a Pizza Hut about a week before my Mom's diagnosis. I see so much of me sometimes in Carys; she was remarkably close to my Mom, and she's got an affinity for my Dad and his cuddles that I recognize. In this picture, Carys is tucked neatly into his arm, but all I can see is me, feeling every bit as secure and happy as my Dad's embrace always makes me feel. Happy Father's Day, Dad. Love you.