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In honor of my wonderful father:

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His book never deterred me, or his closed eyes. I was sure that as soon as my dad felt the mattress rise under him as I climbed onto the green comforter with small blue flowers, nuzzling next to his warm body, that he would set the book face down on his chest and tilt his head until he was gazing at the top of mine. His chin would graze my red hair, but I’d wait a moment before leaning back to meet his gaze, my cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt, listening to his heartbeat in the silence of the sleeping house (it was “quiet time,” Sunday afternoon). We’d laugh and for a moment the heartbeat would disappear. Then it was back, steady, reminding me that he was there and I was next to him and sleep would come after counting the light thump until it was hooves on a country road, a turning jump rope, a boat bumping against some dock….

All of my life, I’ve put my ear against the door in an attempt to hear the turn of a page like the sound of a piece of paper slipping out of my notebook, like a light wind, an invocation for me to come listen and dream beside my dad; I’ve knocked and jiggled the locked door handle, called “Dad?”, and seen his face emerge as he cracks the door open; I’ve barged into the bedroom to find him asleep with his “good ear” towards the pillow, a closed book in his hand. He rests—head propped by a few pillows, a book held upright on his chest, legs extended and crossed, his socked feet rubbing against one another. That image has changed very little over the years though his hair has gone from dark brown to “salt and pepper” to grey and the wrinkle between his eyebrows has deepened and now reading glasses perch on his large, but handsome, nose. His cheeks still look like they hide 25-cent gumballs when he smiles; his skin is still ruddy and smooth as leather.

Sometimes he would read to me from the book he had chosen that day from the five or six that are always stacked on the night stand. His voice—the voice of an army medic, then a preacher, able to send “Yes, sir!” rumbling through an open field and “Praise God!” through a high-ceilinged sanctuary—was, to me, deep enough to engender respect but soft enough to soothe and still. I tried to retain in my maturing mind the theology or biographies or science fiction or scripture that reached me just a few inches below with slight puffs of breath that tickled my forehead. He must have known that words like omnipresent and Pelandria wouldn’t mean anything to me, but he also must have known how much sharing his world would mean to me. He would listen to my interrupting questions and answer with a precision that astounded me. Words gushed from me, but he wasted none. As I grew up, joining him less often while he read, I started to resent the frequent periods of silence between us if I didn’t monologue or ask him questions when we were together—I wanted him to start the conversation, ask me about my life. I thought only then could he ever understand me. He proved me wrong, in seventh grade, the first time I experienced heart-break.

At the finale dance of the Beta Club NC convention, my “boyfriend” danced with another girl for two songs, her head on his shoulder, their bodies close. Justin was the first boy I had ever not treated like one of my brothers. I kept each note from him and filled my journal with thoughts about our relationship. A phone call from him was “like the greatest thing ever” as long as my parents didn’t find out. For the month that we “dated,” I never considered what would happen when we “broke up.” The pain was as new as the feeling of having a crush had been; it was like the rejection I had felt when my BFF started sitting next to another girl at lunch, but fiercer.

After a friend’s mom dropped me off at home that night, Dad was the person I had to talk to, no one else, in my room, as soon as possible, please! He listened to how Justin had asked Anna to dance, how I had been okay with it until the first song ended and they kept dancing, how I cried alone in the bathroom, how I never ever wanted to look at either of them again. He wrapped his arms around me as I wept into his chest.

* * * * *

During summer beach trips as a child, my dad used to take me out into the ocean where only he could stand; I clung to a boogie board with both hands, afraid to let go and wipe my eyes that would burn from the splashing salt water. From behind he would push the board, lifting me up and over the white foam of the cresting waves, then whip me around towards the shore so I could catch the next breaker. After the moment of fear, when my dad released his hold and I felt the pull of the hungry wave, came the freedom of being carried in the surge, wet hair flailing behind, eyes wide until the skid of sand under the boogie board, the water swirling about and someone’s beach chair just a few yards in front. I would pull my legs under me, hop up, hoist the board under my arm and run to meet my dad who was swimming towards me. We’d head back out into the turbulent ocean until my feet were unable to touch its bottom. My dad gripped the sides of the board; when I would forget myself and start kicking with excitement, his arms were there.

*****

There were his arms around me. I was safe. I was grateful that my dad didn’t say anything for a long time, and when he did speak, his words were tender and few. I’ve forgotten what he said, but I haven’t forgotten the feeling of being weak and miserable but accepted and loved in his strong embrace.

It may be that feeling (the one from seven years ago) that seems so tangible to me now, or a feeling much like it that I had a couple months ago when I stumbled into my dad’s study at home, sitting next to his desk. I needed counsel about a recent break up: “Dad, I was so cautious, waited so long before dating him; he liked me so much, I mean, he pursued me for months. I liked him so much too. I still…how do I let him go, how do I trust? and move on?...Does it get easier?” I really was unsure. The emotions and questions surged like the waves at Figure Eight Island.

Dad got up from his chair and knelt next to me to hug me.

His slate-colored, wool sweater smells like toast and peppermint and Polo cologne.

I’m leaning against his chest. I hear his heartbeat in the breath between sobs.