2013. The year of goodbye.

As I count down the waning hours of 2013 I can’t recall a New Year’s Day without my father. For the last 13 years, he joined us for every New Year’s Eve as well. Each New Year’s Eve, the phone would ring: 

Jin. It's thy favorite father.

Um, dad. You are my only father.

Well even if you had others, I'd still be your favorite. So when are you coming by?

I liked that about my father. He was secure in his place with me; sure of my affection. He was certain of everyone’s affection. It never occurred to him that he wasn’t universally loved. He was genuinely surprised the handful of times he found out otherwise. Truth is, most people did like him. Once he flashed his infectious grin, he could get away with almost anything. I miss my adventures with him. And yes, I suspect even presented with other fathers, he'd still be my favorite.

He won’t join me this New Year’s Eve, of course. For that reason, I am reluctant to close the door on 2013. 2014 starts a year in which he doesn’t exist. It marks the first full year he isn’t part of my life. I am not ready to put him squarely in the past. I want to linger in 2013 a little longer where I can still find him. Where I can still reach out my hand and almost touch him.

I am afraid if I stray too far from 2013 the sound of his laugh will grow too soft. I won’t hear the lilt in his voice as he calls out, “Jin!” I won’t be able to conjure up his smile. The image of his sturdy hands, the hands I studied thousands of times, will grow dim. I will forget which finger bore the scare from an old construction accident. I will loose my optimism without his steady presence. I am reluctant to enter a world without him.

But there it is. The future sits as it always has, squarely before me. The countdown continues, picking up greater and greater  speed. I hear my father’s clear voice, telling me, “Jin, what comes, comes. You can't stop tomorrow from coming.” 

No, you can’t. It is time to go forward.

But I won't let him go. I will etch it all in my mind. I will carry his laughter in my heart. I will take his well-loved ancients with me. I will carry him with me however far I travel. I will begin tomorrow with his smile. 

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Yes I am

He is old. There is no denying that. His once confident stride falters as he tries to walk. "Have you fallen?" they ask today. "Not yet," he replies with his sly smile. I watch him lie in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, in and out of dreams. Sometimes talking quietly in his sleep. Occasionally waking, saying, "Jin, you're here."

Yes I am.

"One father raised five children," I've heard him say, "but five children can't raise one father." It is true. When did the tables turn? He was always the rugged man who took care of me. The man who made my world feel safe just by smiling. Subtly our roles shifted and shifted again. Along with my brother and sister, we care for him now. 

He is old they say. He is forgetful. 

I know. 

But he is my father. He still has things to say. "Jin," my father says as he wakes again, breaking into his slow, wide smile, "you're still here." 

Yes I am.



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The wizard, my father and Sam

Sunday afternoon means coffee and oatmeal raisin cookies

“Hey, would you like to hear a story about a wizard?” my father asks hopefully on most of our Sunday outings.

Regardless of my answer, he will tell the story. Sometimes starting at the beginning, sometimes in the middle, eventually he will look up and say, “You’ve heard this story before.”

I have. I know the story well enough to recite it with him. I know the small details he has begun to forget.

“Yes,” I acknowledge, “I’ve heard it, oh, a few thousand times.” He smiles and says, “I thought so.” Still, he finishes the story. Saying the familiar words provides comfort. He is happy visiting that long ago place.

In the back seat of the car Sam scripts from Dr. Seuss: “…Not in a box. Not with a fox. Not in a house. Not with a mouse. I would not eat them here or there. I would not eat them anywhere. I would not eat green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-am…” Like my father, it is a ritual he enjoys.

I lobby for a few minutes of time in the present. I have more luck with my father. He contentedly answers my questions before reverting to yet another familiar story from his past. Sam is more challenging, the world of make believe luring him away for longer periods.

We frequently travel as a trio, Sam, my father and me, giving me ample time to note their growing similarities. Some via shared DNA, others brought to us courtesy of autism and aging.

Sam has my father's tall, sturdy build; his gait strong and confident as my father's once was. I see the same ubiquitous smile light up their eyes. It is a smile full mischief and more contagious than the winter flu. Impulsive in one moment and lost in space in the next, without warning they can build to a quick crescendo of frustration only to quickly shrug it off and flash back to that familiar smile.

Sam has my father's slight, mannerly reserve on meeting new people and shares his common belief that a good day includes a big oatmeal raisin cookie at a local coffee shop while prowling for the next opportunity to tease.

Sam in his Papa's tux for his "prom".

They’ve both been known to belt out a tune just because it feels good; in a sea of madness, they can isolate the joy of a single moment, all while tolerating my need to straighten their collars and shirttails.

The bond between my father and Sam is evident. I marvel at my father’s patience when Sam is too loud or difficult to reach. He cheers the tiniest of successes and on a bad day reminds me to never give up. And Sam? He loves my father. It is as simple as that.  

We’ve settled into a comfortable routine these last few months. I suspect like me, Sam knows all about the wizard. I shouldn't be surprised, then, if one day I hear the wizard story emanate from the back seat. No matter. There are worse things Sam could learn. It is, as my father points out, “It's a very good story and everyone loves the wizard”

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