My father

I have waited months to write anything about my father, mainly to give myself time to calm down. And I'm not even sure how I will feel about this, months from now.  But I wanted to say SOMETHING. I want to start this by saying that I love my father, and that I miss him. Every day I wake up and wish I'd called more. It's an unfortunate truth that his very job makes trying to avoid thoughts of him for a while near impossible. The roads are clogged with trucks, and my own office gets an average of 3 deliveries a day. But I wanted to say as well, that not everybody will like this. And not everyone will think I'm doing or saying the right things.
My earliest memories of my father are warm. I remember laughing a lot with him, and that I enjoyed laying on his chest for naps. I remember he was never really cold to the touch, and that I loved him desperately. I don't quite remember when he left. I built up a memory of that moment, something to fill a void I felt shouldn't be there. It was a cruel memory, far worse I'm sure than what really happened. But nonetheless, he did leave.  I believe I was around three when it happened. And the truth is, my early life was very hard as a result of him leaving. My mother is a wonderful woman and she tried very hard to be honest with me about my father, adding things as I got old enough for them. She never badmouthed my father, she just told me the truth. My father had been unfaithful to her for quite some time, and so she filed for divorce. When I asked why we moved so often, she was very candid about telling me that it was very hard to keep up with raising me, and with paying bills without his child support (my father paid a few months and then stopped).  He sent no cards, made no calls, never showed up. I was thirteen the next time I saw my father, in a Baltimore County court after he faced a judge over nine years of missed payments.  And I was so angry. And I thought I was so grown up. I swore I wouldn't look at him, or speak to him. I wouldn't yell or cuss, but if I hadn't existed, neither did he. That plan worked for around 2 minutes. I found myself weaving through people and molding myself to him, pressing as hard as I could against his chest, and crying. I remember thinking he was still so warm it was like I was hugging a heating blanket. And I remember him clinging to me, his head pressed to the top of mine and my hair getting wet with his tears. And his new wife, and my mother, stood motionless on either side of us, not knowing what to do. But I will forever love my mother for not saying a negative word. She wanted me to have a relationship with my father no matter how late it was in starting. And she held no grudge against him.
I went to dinner with him and my stepmother that night.  No idea what we ate. There were a few hours between seeing him and dinner, and I was terrified he'd disappear again. But he showed. And I loved that night. I saw him several times over the next year, and he spent every second of that time asking millions of questions, and telling me stories about work, and his wife and their cats.
Then one day, when  I hadn't seen him in a few months, I got angry. And when he called that night I asked him everything I had wondered but tried to bury. I was so callous, I went straight through all the crying I heard on the other end, even when his wife tried to take the phone from him. And to his credit he didn't let her. He took everything I threw at him. And I threw a LOT. I asked why he would cheat on my mother, how he could just leave me and not look back. Why he wouldn't pay the child support that would have enabled us to keep our house. I finally told him when we lost that house a supposed friend had offered us two rooms of his home. And I spent the next several years mentally, verbally, physically, and sexually abused by him. That when my dad should have been saving me, I had to save myself. I told him he was horrible, that he was selfish. I told him all the joy he'd had over those nine years had better have been great cause they came at a hell of a price. And when I was run down and sobbing and my mother was smoothing my hair, all he said for it was "Kiddo, don't stop talking to me over this, please. I don't know why I did it, I'm so sorry I did it, I have no excuse, but don't give up on me yet." And for one reason or another…I didn't. We had fluctuated in how often we talked since then, but I never gave up on him.
The whole point of this damn long story is…since he died I've seen all these stories that are so very untrue. And some I'm sure he's told himself. But my father was not perfect. He was incredibly flawed. He had a dark past that he told very few people and as a result many people have a skewed view of him. My father was a man. He was warm, funny, outgoing, adventurous, hard working, passionate, creative, loving, boyish, energetic, generous, and human. He gave the most amazing bear hugs, and his eyes twinkled like Santa Clause stories when he laughed. He took amazing photos that can stand against many professionals, and saw beautiful things on the back of the very bike that took him from us. He told great jokes, and would listen intently to even the most boring stories. He made you feel important and special. He had a magnetism that drew you in, and once you were there he had a charm that kept you. And for a while I was upset that I was shouldered with the not so wonderful truths about him. But I realized that when he died I was of a select few that truly knew him. And loved him anyway. And I am grateful every day of my life that that night years ago, when he asked me not to give up on him….I didn't.