Stories of a Daddy’s Girl Part 2

I call this part two because it IS the second one. I don’t know if there’ll be more and if I can bring myself to write more. Today is my dad’s 6th month deathversary.

I miss him everyday and sometimes I don’t miss him at all. I am him and he is me and I can’t help but see him in my pictures. 

Just the other day, I was recounting his little advice about eating bananas to a friend. “Eat bananas so you won’t get any spots. You haven’t seen monkeys with spots, have you?” My dad can be so serious at times. My dad was conservative in his views but he was also silly. In fact, he never failed to make a quip and make light of superstitions or traditions. He did it in a way that was both irreverent and innocuous. My mom would say something like, “don’t sing while you’re cooking, or you’ll marry someone much older than you” and in turn, he’d say, “if you sing, there will be spittle all over the food.” 

I don’t know how other kids would’ve done in my place but I believe I thrived in the kind of upbringing I had. My dad indulging my fantasies and telling me it was ok to cry so I could clean my eyes, and my mom telling me to stop because they weren’t abusing me. All I know was that I was loved. When I was six, I distinctly remember my parents arguing in front of me. They were talking about who was going to leave and work abroad. It went on and on and I cried and cried. I fell asleep on the sofa, not really aware of how it ended. My dad left when I was seven and from then on I would only see him home for about two months out of a year.

One of my last memories before he left for Saudi was him waiting for me to finish school so we could go to my uncle’s funeral. I desperately wanted to wear my new clothes. Unfortunately it was edged in red and according to tradition, one mustn’t wear bright colors to wakes and funerals.

Such a little thing to be reminded of, perhaps. But I always remember my dad noticing our clothes and how we were dressed. I didn’t grow up with the stereotypes of fathers only being around for disciplining or for church. My life revolved around my dad when I was little that perhaps if I hadn’t been transferred to a new school in third grade, I would’ve felt his absence even more.

Things changed when he came back as he was a more devout Christian and would take us to a different church. To me, however, it was just dad being dad. I liked his church more for the Christian rock songs more than anything I suppose, but I also treasured those Sundays with him. 

The few months out of year he would be home would be spent on home improvements and him helping my mom with the house. He did all the household chores he could and that’s how I always knew he loved my mom. Eventually, when he retired, he would wait for my mom to get home and ask after her constantly  whenever she was out. It was annoying but sweet.

I have clear memories of him waylaying missionaries who sought to convert people into their religion. He was also the type of person who would welcome random traveling salesmen. I always felt sorry for whoever walked into our gate because my dad could really talk. He loved arguing with people from different faiths and people he deemed ignorant of one thing or the other.

I am happy and I am sad. I cry and I smile. I have all these memories of a wonderful man I had the pleasure of spending 37 years with, 

I apologize if this is disjointed or disorganized.

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A poem I wrote in May:

Death came and left me fatherless 

Death came and took away my first love

Gone is the face the most like mine

Gone are the cuddles, the kisses and the love shining from his eyes

Gone are the tears every time I call to make him smile

Gone are the answers to questions I still ask

Gone is the man who taught me my letters 

Gone is the man who fostered my love of stories and knowledge 

Gone is the man who taught me to question and to understand

Perhaps to somewhere better

Perhaps he’s here to stay

Perhaps he’s part of the beauty I see every day

Wherever that is

Death, please take care of my Daddy