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.