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"I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather my spark burn out in a brilliant blaze than be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy, permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time." ~Jack London

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Remembering



I have spent the entire day thus far in silence. I've needed it. Since the moment I woke up, I have done nothing but lounge around, reading The Namesake, listening to the soft rain outside my bedroom window, the occasional humming rush of a car passing by. It's been lovely, calming, quiet in a way I haven't experienced in far too long. Quiet enough that it is my own voice that rises to the surface, familiar and yet novel, emerging from an eclectic nagging assembly of advice and opinions, settling itself comfortably in the limelight. Quiet enough that I can think of no better way to use this opportunity of time, this moment, this life I've been given than to sit down and write. Quiet enough that I recognize the grandeur of this gift as it arrives.

It was surprising to discover that such an ordinary line could reduce me to tears. I was so struck by my own fragility. Which is not to say I couldn't have seen it coming. I've been on the verge of such a breakdown. I've needed it. The way I've needed silence. The way I've needed to distinguish my voice from all the others. But I wouldn't have guessed I'd find my release in a line about banana bread.

I remember distinctly the smell of it baking. I remember the way you would always make two versions, one with raisins, one with chocolate chips, one for school, one for home. I remember the way I sliced into the one you had left behind for us and saw the melted chocolate come oozing out onto the sharp blade. I remember the way, even as a child, especially as a child, I knew that leaving us the better, chocolate version meant that you liked us best. I knew how to spot these small gestures of love.

I remember too, the rotting bananas before they were used to cook. I remember the way they'd sit for days in that big blue bowl mom had found at some yard sale, the inside painted with colorful fruits, as though it could only have one singular function, one possible purpose. I remember how brown and mushy you would let them get, despite my protests and aversion to foods past their prime, my verbal acknowledgements of the arrival of fruit flies in our kitchen. I remember how you promised that their spoiled appearance would only make the end result that much sweeter. I remember how you kept your promise, time and time again.

I've been thinking of you a lot lately, as I've been moving into this seemingly more grown up chapter of my life. I've thought about calling more than once, about inviting you over, inviting you back in. I stop myself each time with a series of "what ifs" and "buts" and a haunting fear of regenerating a cycle of feeling hurt and let down. But recently I've noticed that voice quieting. And I've noticed another voice growing, a voice unfamiliar and yet reminiscent, a voice that sounds an awful lot like a girl who needs her daddy.

Today my roommate is at a memorial for her grandfather who died a year ago. Her dad wasn't around much and her grandfather took on that role. The loss was devastating. At the same time, her uncle is on his deathbed and her cousins are facing the loss of their own father. No matter how strained their relationships with him might have been, none of this could possibly be easy. None of this is pain that I could possibly understand. Not really. Not fully.

I think about what it would feel like to lose you. I will say this because I believe in the power and healing of honesty. I used to almost wish for it. Not because I was angry and felt you deserved to have your life ended. It was because I was hurt and didn't know how to move on. It was because at least death would have provided me with some form of closure. It was because it would have been easier to lose you to death than to lose you to anger or fear or the feeling of being unloved. It was because I thought I could handle the idea that you were gone better than I could ever handle the idea that you didn't like the person I had become, the person I am. It was because losing you would be different than feeling like I had been the one who lost you. Your death wouldn't be my fault.

But now, when I think about losing you, I think about all of the things that would go unsaid. I think about the way my own stubborn will and agonizingly over analytical mind have kept us from moving on, moving together, moving toward something better. I think about the way I have denied us the opportunity to even begin the healing process. And it makes me sorry. And it makes me sad. And it makes me miss you, even if it's just the idea of you. I know that I only get one of you. I know that is the kind of promise you can keep.

And, as lame as the analogy is, maybe you and I could be like the banana bread, Dad. Maybe I just needed to let our somewhat spoiled relationship sit and rot until it circled back round to sweetness. Maybe we can take those fragile mushy pieces of ourselves and mix them into something wonderful. Maybe we could even throw in a couple of our best chocolate chips.

Maybe you could spot this small gesture of love, and forgive me for the length of time it's taken me to get here, and understand why I've been silent for so long. I've needed it.

8 comments:

Stephen Zelnick said...

Dear Frankie,

Read your blog and was touched by your honesty and strength about all this and by your humor.

The banana bread is a gift from my mother, and I recall also being repelled by the fruit flies and by the blackening and collapsing skins of those sad withered bananas. My mother would never have allowed chocolate chips into the recipe, but she didn’t mind hardening our arteries by using sour cream (I switched to yogurt). I retain her batter-splotched cookbook, which I promise to leave you when I move on to that kitchen in the sky.

Inertia keeps us headed in chosen directions long after those directions make sense. If you had called – any time during this long break – I would have sat down wherever I was and given you my full attention and my love. In all the tumultuous changes these past few years, I have always been your dad, and you have always been my daughter.

Last night I attended a wedding reception, and seated next to me was an honest-to-God South Philly woman (name of Rose Rita, if you can believe that), and I spent much of the evening going deep with a stranger (I learned that from my father). I talked about my children and she talked about hers. On leaving, she took my arm and told me not to despair about your absence but that it would all be OK, that daughters need their dads as much as dads need their daughters. Ro is one of those elemental people who don’t know a whole lotta words. I like these people – always have – and treasure the few words they choose to speak meaningfully. She noticed my longing and likely had gone through something with her own father, but she told me what was on my mind.

I propose that we have dinner together, just us two (maybe weekly for a while) – no new house and all those rituals, no car business, no Edna, and no siblings.

I’m not dead yet, but I do have a pain that won’t go away, right about there.

Love,
Dad

meghan said...

hey you -

reading this I can feel you healing. I can feel openings happening for you in lots of small ways. I hope you get what you need from this and from decisions you make from now on - love to you!

Pen said...

wow. that bought tears to my eyes. i feel honoured to have shared such a special moment between father and daughter and think that your writings here will go a long way to not just healing your relationship, but those between other people too.

{powerful}

i have to say also, it is clear now where you have found your fluid and captivating style of writing.

i hope you both go on to share some special weekly dinners.

i have lost my father and what i would give for some of that time... enjoy and cherish it xx

Tabor said...

What a great post! You sound really mature in trying to tie together this relationship that you have let fly. It is interesting the memories that come to the forefront when we are making big changes in our lives.

Lori said...

This is beautiful Frankie! So powerful and inspiring!

jenica said...

with tears rolling down my cheeks i almost feel like i shouldn't be commenting on such a personal moment.

but i hear you and understand the feeling, and bow to your ability to use such poignant metaphors.

i hope you can both find peace very soon.

Anonymous said...

My dearest frankie,

I am so touched that this connection has been made once again, it puts my heart at rest as I am sure it does yours. Your words about the banana bread and love hit me deeply and your eloquence left me breathless after reading your post.

I am so happy that you and your dad have made that initial communication and I wish you only the best...ironically enough, I was up at the reception desk and went down to the lunch room to make some tea only to find... some BANANA BREAD! I am eating it now, fresh, moist and full of wonderful walnuts and thinking of you... please dont hesitate to call for anything at all... i am here for you always:)

love, meghan

daringtowrite said...

rich and sweet!