My dad passed away in August of this year. We had a non-existent relationship during the last 15 years of his life. I thought about him frequently and wondered if he ever thought of me. Every six months or so, I would search archived news posts online to see if somehow he made the paper for some reason. As a younger girl, I'd imagine him approaching Oprah or Gerry Springer to find me, since he obviously didn't know where I was, or he would have contacted me.
About a year ago, my mom told me she thought she saw him on TV. The local station was doing a story about a clean up project in an elderly housing community and the man she thought looked familiar was moving around behind the reporter. Eventually, the story was printed and archived; with some sleuthing, I found his address, and wrote him a letter.
The day his response came in the mail, I was gardening with my husband and took a break to read it, dirty hands and all. His handwriting was exactly the way I remembered; his words were corny and the letter was signed with "Love ya!" We corresponded via email a couple of times after that.
His last message is still sitting in my Inbox. It was an odd one; I read it over and over trying to figure it out. He told me he was in good health (isn't that a weird thing to say, unless the topic is health?) and he asked if my birthday is August 22. My birthday fell on the 11th of that month, like it does every year. Admittedly, I was annoyed; the little girl in me was hurt because my dad wasn't sitting around every August 11th, under the sign of the Leo, thinking about me. He signed the letter "I'm sorry I'm a terrible father."
I didn't reply.
A couple of days later, I turned 42. Some days after that, August 22 came and went and he didn't even wish me a happy birthday on the day he
thought was my birthday. According to his death certificate, he died on that day.
My husband and I went to Florida to tie up his loose ends. We met people he called friends; we donated the furniture and kitchen items. The books that filled his apartment from top to bottom reminded me of times when I was little - he was always surrounded by books. They were his friends: places to escape from the struggles of life and loneliness.
I cried for weeks about this man I didn't know, who left two children and a wife to couch surf through his family and, later, mine until he found his place in isolation where he told me he was happy.
We buried him in Bay Pines National Cemetery. He was in the Army and the Navy and is now surrounded by his peers for eternity. The lesson still eludes me. Why did it take me 15 years to find him, only to lose him four months after reconnecting? Why did he leave - was it him, or me? Why didn't I reply to that last email? Perhaps I should have told him that it's perfectly normal to forget someone's birthday after so much time, and that I forgive him for being human.
He's next to a small pond full of ducks. The warm breeze carries the sound of the memory bells across the green, green grass. Somehow, it feels ok that he finally has a place to call his own. I hope he's happy.
