A Crinkle in Time

When my dad died a little over three years ago, I was more than slightly aware that his passing would have weird and unexpected effects on my life. I knew there would be times when I missed his voice, or his deep belly laugh. His gentle teasing humor would be a void not easily filled as one day melted into the next. I knew I would want to share the news of my life with him. But there was no way for me to understand how it would feel to be denied the ability to share it.

I can still see him. His eyes had three main branches of crinkles at the corners when he smiled his crooked indulgent grin. Regardless of how genetics and osteoporosis conspired to warp his stance, he still managed to lean back when he talked to you so that your eyes were level and you felt the full gravity of his words. That is, if he said any words. Every glance he cast your way told you exactly what he wanted you to know, whether it was "What in the hell is wrong with you?", "Pass the salt", or the elusive "I'm so very proud of who you are", you knew exactly what he meant. And it meant a lot.

I think of him every day, and that's not surprising, but what I have found to be jarring is the amount of times I forget he's gone and I'll think about what he'll say when I tell him THIS bit of information. And then I remember. The bottomless pain has gradually become a dull heartbeat that is always there, but doesn't slam me to the floor the way I allowed it to in the past. I very much credit my fiance for helping remind me that good men are still here, though one of the best I've ever known might not be.

In about a week my brother and sister-in-law are about to do something completely extraordinary. Their restaurant and his efforts as chef have been chosen to cook at the James Beard House in New York City. For the world of culinary arts, this is the equivalent of winning an Oscar. No, wait. Not winning. Earning. Every time I think about their wonderful achievement, I think how incredible it must be to be Dad right now. Not only does he get to see his son fulfill a lifelong dream, but he also gets to watch over them and hold their hands in a way he never would have done, had he been confined to his fragile body. In a way, his passing is the only thing that allows him to share that day with them.

It is that sort of realization that I never expected to have in the first couple years that were roundly devoted to healing and learning how to live on an Earth that didn't host him anymore. To be sure, it is a different place. But since I've come to look at his death as merely a change of address, I'm grateful he's still available to me in our own way. And when I look in the mirror and see the beginning of those wrinkle branches on my own eyes, I can only smile a little bigger. Crookedly.