Learning How to Love from an Addict

My dad and me, May 1992

When you’re young it’s hard to completely grasp the personality and character of your parents. As I grow older I am beginning to see my dad for who he was, although it is always a shade of who he was because his addiction hid his true self. But there were glimpses for which I am grateful...

- playing catch together when I was somewhere near 7 years old; we tossed my pink glittery ball back and forth on the screened-in back porch and as he repeatedly hit the ball with his backside and I'd laugh every time - just so happy that he and I were having a moment together to ourselves;

- the re-telling of pranks he committed both with his twin brother Paul when they were 18 or 19 years old and then later in life while he was a patient in Spaulding rehab; he would laugh while telling us how he'd disguise his voice as a doctor, calling the rooms of other patients from the hallway payphone with urgent requests that they meet him or her in their office immediately; 

- his laughing to the point of accidental drooling at Walter Matthau and the silliness of Dennis the Menace, one of his favorite movies;

- his singing Waltzing Matilda over my shoulder while I sat, all of 9-years-old, at our hand-me-down piano trying to plunk out the melody along with him.

He was musical and mischievous and I’m sure I never knew the half of it. He was generous when he had some extra cash in his pocket and he loved me and my siblings in the best way he knew how. I see his eyes everyday as I look in the mirror at my own, the folded and slightly slanted lids that can both hide and express the thoughts and emotions of the person that exists behind blue iris.  

He was not perfect but he was mine and I was his and we shared a way of loving for all the 25 years we had together.  He died 25 years ago this past Valentine's Day -- a day of practicing how to love others. How perfect. Our loving each other was experienced in the imperfect effort of scaling and summiting a father-daughter connection, losing our footing in tearful exchanges and finding beauty in the landscape of a relationship whose vista captivated us, elicited our tears and took our breath away.

It’s time well spent— reminiscing. The memories of my dad are now half of my lifetime away from the present and they are fading, quickly. The memories of my dad are always a reminder from my Father to love those whose lives are hidden from us in some way. If we could see them for who they truly are, we would find love looking back at us.