This letter is something I wrote about three months after my father died. It’s hard for me to read this letter; I was 26 and I think both my youth and my naiveté are pretty obvious, as well as my grief. I’ve changed a lot in the years since then. But I think this is a good example of grief when it was fresh and raw and I was trying desperately to “normalize” myself.
Dear Poppa,
It is Independence Day, 1996, and I am independent. I am on my own at last, after all these years. It was a mutual dependence, I concede, but it is hard for me to be without it. The dogs keep me from being lonely, but they cannot replace a family that has disappeared. In a few days, I will be moving out of our old house, and with that move, my whole life will be left behind. You, Mother, the house, the bills….I have the dogs, the cat, my car, and entirely too much furniture.
Speaking of which, I have laid on the couch in the den for 10 days. It all boils down to the same chore: staying alive. If I could just come to the conclusion that it is not worth the effort, I might be better off by killing myself. No such luck, though: if nothing else, you taught me the value of every day as it is lived. You had an indefatigable way of assuming that, good or bad or worse, tomorrow will come anyway, so you just might as well be prepared for it…or unprepared, but with your eyes open. I am not preparing myself for anything, but I am at least acknowledging that I will be around tomorrow. Lying here, I can almost pretend (as if most of the furniture had not been sold in the estate sale) that you are still at your desk in the living room. That is actually a delusion worth living for.
I know you always hoped I would find a good, worthy man to share this burden with, but I am afraid I have let you down there too. Like you, I have a tendency to trust a veneer as the truth. I also want a man strong enough not to need me, although those are also the ones who don’t want me. The strength I am attracted to is nothing more than a veneer over emotionally shallow boys. You fell for a woman whose warmth and charm was genuine to the bone, but whose common sense and self-confidence was a rouse, and she financially ruined you. And you loved her anyway. After seeing what her death did to you, I think I might just be better off never falling in love at all.
This year, July 4th means more to me than a holiday that upsets the terrier. I do want to celebrate for once (we so rarely did, didn’t we?), and have a grill-out and listen to you lecture me about my vegetarianism. I want to hear you tell me how exciting my life is, and how many mistakes I am going to make – now I want those insufferable, fatherly lectures on how bad my life isn’t. We could eat salted watermelon for dessert on the back porch during the afternoon rain, and talk about how much Mother loved lazy afternoons and hated summer days.
On these patriotic holidays, everyone talks teary-eyed about our “American Heroes.” How many of them held the hand of a hero while he died? I did, by God, I saw a good man die: You. It is true that living heroes are mostly overlooked, and spend the rest of their lives wondering where their 15 minutes of fame went. Perhaps the only good hero is a dead one; eulogies are more impressive than checks to pay the grocery bills with.
You were a hero, Poppa, one of the top. How many men did you save during your stint in SAR during Viet Nam? And those victims you tried to help at that concentration camp during WWII – I am sure they saw you for the angel you are. How many remember you today? More than you would guess, you with your fatal humble pie. So your name is not being shouted from signs and billboards – hell, I don’t even have a flag to fly at half-mast – but it is inscribed deeply into the hearts of those who knew you. Like me. I miss you.
Love, Miss Boo.
