My relationship with my father was uncommonly close. His desire to have children was famous amongst his friends, he often doted on the children of his friends as if they were his own. He quickly became the favorite uncle in no time, always having the time to play with the kids and always having candies and other treats.
So it was that the pressure was placed on my mother to have children. I was number three or four, I don't remember, and the number seems to change with each retelling. I came along after my mother stayed in bed for almost the entire nine months that she was pregnant with me, her friends would go through all the Chinese medicianl shops in greater Taipei looking for medicine that would help her have me. It was a momentous occasion when I came along. My dad was in his mid forties when this happened, needless to say,I was doted on, spoiled, and literally could do no wrong. Even though we were not wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, I went to the best school in Taiwan, my room was clogged with the best toys and books and whatever I desired. Within reason of course.
Since I was the other child, he became my best friend, he got on the ground and played with me, we shared secrets and had our own language. My poor mother wasn't exactly left out of the picture but she certainly was not a part of our club. Our relationship even survived my becoming a teenager.
As obnoxious and self absorbed as I was, we always had our time together. It was Friday night, we would watch TV and talk about life, morals, ethics, things that two best friends talk about at the exclusion of others. He supported me unconditionally when I screwed up in grad school and nearly didn't get my degree and he rode the emotional wave with me as I foundered and triumphed. It was no small feat to get me to finishe my Phd, as I was by nature a dilettante and had problems focusing on any one thing. Not quite ADHD but I supposed there are some of that in my nature.
The reason I am going through all this back ground is that I lost my dad in 2001. I miss him every day, in large and small ways. You would think that 13 years is enough time, but it isn't. The hard holidays aren't Christmas or New Years. We always celebrate his life on the day of his birth and the day of his passing, usually at Red Lobsters, because that was his favorite place in Findlay Ohio where my parents after they moved back to the US, but those aren't the hard days either.
Today is the hard day. When every image on television, every message on social media, every news media tease involves the picture of a father and children. This is a bitch, this is hard. This is the day I have to steel myself against losing it publicly. I still lose it, just not in public, like at the grocery store. This is the day that everything reminds me of him. This is the day where every voice in my head is his voice, saying those same things he always says over and over and over again. Those things that used to drive me crazy, because they were always the same, never wavering. Things about being a good person, about being patient, about how to treat people, about how to be a moral human being. I don't need the moral teachings of a church nor a religion, I have my father's voice to guide me in my life.
This day will soon be over, and I will return to work and the hectic schedules of a hired gun. No doubt I will dream of him tonight and I will no doubt miss his so much that is feels like there are a million daggers slicing through my insides, but this too shall pass. Until next year.
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