Maybe the reason is that he was just recently in town, here visiting a weekend, in my new home of Carrboro, NC. Or maybe it’s just the way I’ve always seen him—perhaps I’ve always imagined him this way. He’s up early, dressed and pressed, smelling of soap and aftershave. And he’s not looking this way for himself. Humility shields this man of any pretense. He wants to reflect well upon me. Though he fails to take credit that all he is proud of in me is a direct reflection of the best in him.
Daddy came to school with me, to my classroom. I was nervous about it, for superficial reasons, but mainly I felt excited. Heavy-hearted. I believe that it is rare for a daughter, and the same goes for my sister, to have such an unequivocal love for her father. Usually it’s the parent caring and providing, going through the growing pains and drifting currents developing children often follow. But there is no shred of embitterment here—I still palm in my little hands the idea that Daddy’s my hero and he can do no wrong. That will always stay with me.
I don’t know what it’s like to be looking back, as he described it, to be reflecting upon years gone by. I’m trying to survive and comprehend my today. And I follow my finger across the stories of successes and tribulations my father has lived—a stalwart, unyielding champion of strength, of integrity, of honor. A surprisingly funny, charming man with a genuine, deliberate demeanor, a keen sense of style, and one hell of a tennis serve.
I wish that for my Dad’s sixtieth birthday I could rummage through his past, sift through the memories, and bag and bottle up every last moment that filled his heart of hearts with satisfaction. I want to bundle up pride in a bullet-proof package. I wish to bind together laughter and ridiculous jokes galore. Because for people like him, people you consider to embody what’s pure and real and good in life, you want to give the best. You want to give back the impossible gifts which you’ve felt fortunate to receive.
But I’m not the best of daughters. I fall short in expressing my gratitude, in designing my plans to celebrate my favorite man on earth on his very special day, in a way that does it any justice. Though I hope he does notice that the path of independence I’m taking, the goals I’m dreaming to reach, the person I’m bleeding profusely to become, is because of the passage he’s trudged through to get here. I am living my life in hopes of priding in him.
So Daddy, if you wondered what it meant to me, for you to be the leader in my life, just take the pride you hold for your daughters, and multiply.
Happiest day to you, Daddy-O/Poppa/Diddy/Dah Dah/Daddy.
I am overcome.
Yours always,
Kensie
