My dad sent me a check today. It’s to pay for the stove I ordered and am having installed in his house – where I’m living. I’m sitting here caught between an editing project and wanting to write for myself (either a poem or this blog post). For a few days I’ve been wanting to do something with the line “the inheritor of bad decisions.” Maybe it’s the title of book or poem.
I’m looking at the envelope my dad sent. I’d recognize his handwriting anywhere. On the return address, he wrote his first and middle initial – I’m not sure I’ve seen him refer to himself this way. His handwriting is firm – authoritatively so. I can remember birthday cards, the letters slanted a little to the right (he always prints, never cursive). On the cards, he’d sometimes go over the letters in my name a few times and sometimes there would be underlines. It always seemed odd to have my name on the outside of a card that was being handed to me – as if we were celebrating a whole slew of birthdays like Christmas in August and he had to make sure that he gave the right card to the right kid. My dad has a lot of precisely odd quirks – from how many glasses of water he drinks before bed to the strange diets he adopts. He is a creature of habit. Something in his handwriting reaffirms this.
What I notice on this envelope is that the number four in the address is shakier than the other numbers and letters. It’s entirely possible that the pen got caught in a groove on whatever was under the envelope, but that’s not where my mind goes. My dad’s eyes and hearing are going. His step is noticeably slower and more deliberate – cautious. It’s easy to imagine his dexterity going as well. It’s a brief and uncomfortable moment – thinking of him becoming frail and uncertain. He’s loomed large over much of my life…. a projection of what it means to be strong, a masculinity I’ve rejected and rebelled against. Most days, I’m caught in my own world more concerned about whatever new ache I have. We’re all getting older. Sitting here, looking at a shaky four, I can’t help but to think about how our bodies slowly fail us, how maybe next year, or the year after that, it’s a few more numbers and letters not so straight and uncharacteristic in their lack of conviction.
I think I assume my parents and family will always be around. I’m not prepared for the day that their not – and yet I take it all for granted. I’ve been pretty fortunate in that I haven’t been touched too often by deep loss. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last two years, it’s that it’s not the type of change I do well with. As I’m thinking this (and writing), I’m beginning to wish I had more pictures of us. The last one I think I have is from when we went on a road trip to Ohio State. I’m suddenly worried that I won’t have anything to look at or look back on.
Maybe it’s the season that has me thinking this way. It’s a time for family and friends – except COVID seems to have other plans. It’s a time of reflection, a time to think about what has mattered, what has shaped us, and what still holds meaning. I feel selfish for not thinking this way more often. I feel bad that I don’t talk with my family more or that I’ve let people I’ve cared about slip out of my life – though some chose to leave. I wonder who else notices the slight tremor, or how forgetfulness seems to slide in more often than it used to. When’s the last time we’ve asked, “how are you?” and really meant it – as both a way of asking, but also letting the people we care about know that we see them. I’m sure the wobble in the 4 was just the pen hitting a sesame seed speed bump, but by considering the alternatives I’m forced to think about how little I know about the everyday ailments and worries of the people I’m sure to miss and one day wish I had paid closer attention to.