Letter to Dad, #3

Dad, I saw your white cottontail in the headlights
when I drove to Shop Rite for groceries at 9:30 tonight.
Hi Dad, I'm talking to Sissy, I called out to make her laugh,
since I was on the cell with her. Don't run him over! she said,
making me laugh. 

Hi Dad. 


Sissy and I are missing you so much. [Did you hear us talking tonight about the lawyer's fees?] 


H. misses you, too. So does Will; he told me in an email and told Sis when she saw him on her walk to work one morning. I don't think Figgy is feeling her feelings enough to be in touch with missing you, but I know that she loved you.


Dad, I am so worried. And I really miss being able to turn to you with my fears and worries. You were always reassuring. You were calm and kind. I could talk to you about almost anything.


That's natural, you might say, you did say, many times when I would deliver a problem--whether it was about arguing with H. or Figgy questioning the Catholic faith. I would leave feeling better, and more positive. That's a gift you gave me again and again.


But Dad, I am so scared. I am so, so scared. There is no handbook for this road my family is on. There are no set turns, no definite exits. I can't tell when the road will rise and when it will dip low. It is so frightening, and I feel helpless. Every time I think I see the sun over the hills, it turns out there's another detour, another breakdown, another stall. I have to have so much patience. We all do. I have to be vigilant. I can't really trust blindly. It is all so much effort. I worry, I cry, I fret. I feel like I've aged 50 years.


To have to deal with this and to have you be gone too is just too much for me. I don't think I will ever run out of fears, or tears.


I have chocolate-almond biscotti in the oven--a recipe from my neighbor Amy. Since it's an Italian cookie, I always think of Rosie and you when I measure the mound of flour and cocoa, beat the butter and eggs. I put a little espresso powder in, too. But tonight, I just pictured you standing behind me, watching over me. I wanted you to be there, looking over my shoulder. I need your strength and perspective. I started crying over the bowl. I just don't know if I can face all this without you.



I am up late; Fig and H. are sleeping. But now I see why. It's not just the baking that is therapeutic, but the talking to you, too.


Dad, maybe you've got a direct connection up there right now. Maybe you can pull some pink gossamer strings, work some magic. It's midnight; your 88th birthday. Happy Birthday. Sissy and I were hoping to have a lunch at the nursing home, in the little private dining room. We were going to invite some of your friends. Now you're not here. 


Dad, you longed for a big wheel of Provolone when your mother took you shopping as a boy. May there be one big wheel up in Heaven. May you dig in and enjoy. May there also be some of your other favorite things: shrimp, dark chocolate, grilled sausages.


I love you and miss you. Please watch out for us. I do feel a little better for having talked to you this way. Thank you for listening. Good night.


Love always, 
Alice