It’s been almost three years since you died. Three years since I’ve heard your voice. I’m afraid I’ll forget what it sounds like, so I force myself to remember at least once a day. I force myself to remember you greeting me at the door, before the cancer, in a jean shirt and saying “hi bay-be” in a way that only you could get away with. I force myself to remember those quiet mornings when Cooper was first born and we’d come visit. I’d be up early with Cooper, and even though Jamie was sleeping in a bit later, you’d still be up early because you’re you. We’d just sit quietly in the living room. More often than not you’d already have coffee waiting for me, even though you hated the stuff.
I force myself to remember these things because I’m terrified I’ll forget. And I don’t want to ever forget.
I don’t want to forget driving in the car with you shortly after you got your license singing “Brown Eyed Girl”. Or watching Law and Order with you every single Wednesday night, even over the phone if you were out of town. Or the first concert I ever went to. Or the way you used to calm colic-y Cooper down by sitting with him in front of your fish tank. Or when I was ten or so and I ate way too much junk food on your birthday and got really sick. You sat up with me, missing part of your party, until I fell asleep.
I don’t want to forget a second of it, because I am so lucky to have lived it.
You were an amazing father. Of course we had disagreements, but c’mon, we were two Pernas! Put any two stubborn people in the same house for 15+ years and there’s bound to be some conflict.
I hope you know that I never doubted your love. Not for one moment. Even when I was a teenager and belligerent as all hell. Even when I was six and convinced that you hated me because you and Mom had the audacity to have a “date night” without me (I reserve the right to be forever jealous that you got to see Phantom of the Opera live and I am stuck with the movie versions). Even near the end, when some days you couldn’t speak and others when I didn’t understand I always knew how much you loved me. I hope you know how much the feeling was returned; how much I love and value you. Even still I speak about you frequently and fondly.
I wanted to say something at your funeral. I thought as the eldest child I ought to say something, at least on behalf of the siblings. After all, Brianne had already done so much and Jamie, well Jamie was going to grow up without an amazing softball coach, without hearing “oh, are you Jeff’s child?!” followed by a list of ways in which you touched that person’s life, without having the security of you. The least I could do was say something.
And I tried, Dad, I really did. I got as far as plagiarizing your famous opening line and then froze. “I’ll keep this short and sweet, just like me” and then nothing. No cute stories of softball or mini-putt or shared food poisoning. Just…nothing. You were gone and that was too much to process and how DARE the world just keep turning! Why wasn’t the weight of your loss impacting everybody else as much as it was me??
Here’s something I’ve never told anyone: I wasn’t able to accept that you were gone until I saw your body. Not that I think your sense of humour is that sick or dark, but I just couldn’t accept it. You were so full of life, even when you were so ill. It wasn’t real until I saw your body; but I don’t remember much after that except Nanny. Nanny, who had lost her soulmate six months prior to losing her son, was guiding me to a chair. Brianne seemed to materialize out of nowhere with facial tissue and hugs and I don’t remember a single thing except crying until I came back home to Kingston. How can words express that?
So I didn’t say anything. I sat and laughed and cried and grieved in my own way while letting those who had the words express them. And they did. Beautifully.
I got married not that long ago. I’ve switched jobs and am trying to make a go out of writing. You would be so happy and proud of me. There isn’t a day that passes where I don’t wish I could share these joys with you.
With Love,
Your A.J.