I started three different blog posts yesterday. None of them clicked. This is my greatest fear by the way, that eventually the well will run dry. What if, some day, I simply have nothing more to say? I know this isn’t truth but it still keeps me up at night.
And then, last night, the wildly talented Robin Moulyn sent me this, a portrait she created of my dad from the photo I most adore. Whenever we parted ways after a visit, my dad would wrap me in a bear hug and say, “Drop us a line some time, okay?” I thought perhaps it was time to drop him that line and tell him what I’ve been up to since he passed.
Dear Dad,
I can’t believe you’ve been gone nine months. I have friends who have lost a parent. They tell me that I’m now part of a secret club and that I will miss you every single day of my life.
I do.
But even when you were still alive I missed you every single day.
For a decade.
I’m still trying to unravel all that. One day I took out this little red notebook and attempted to chronicle the dates and events leading up to your decline, like I was going to uncover a clue that I missed or pinpoint the exact date I lost the ‘Sam’ I once knew. Pacemaker, prostrate cancer, stent surgery … stent surgery … stent surgery. You were never the same after that.
Depression. The doctors said it was depression. No. My gut said no.
Dementia. The doctors said it was dementia. Overnight? No. My gut said no.
Impaired cognitive function, flat affect. Oh yes, finally someone was describing my experience of you. But it took far too many years (and a chance meeting with a neuroscientist) to uncover that truth. Stent surgery. Stent surgery. Stent surgery.
“Google it,” he said.
Lately I have been looking through the photographs I have of you. I look at your eyes and the somewhat-vacant-smile on your face and I say to my husband, “See? This one. This is where the light went out.” And then I try to find the date to confirm it. Stent surgery. Stent surgery. Stent surgery.
Like somehow confirming that date is going to make it easier. And then I wonder, does everyone torture themselves this way when they lose a loved one? But don’t you go worrying about me now; there are far more days that I simply cherish the memory of you.
Those memories, this portrait: luminous.
I see you laughing or eating or talking (and talking and talking). Oh how you loved to talk. We would never send you to the market when we needed something quick. You could be gone for hours as you stopped to chat with someone, everyone, even perfect strangers. I want you to know, I do that, too.
Mostly, I look for opportunities to keep you alive. Here’s a project you would adore; I swear you channeled it. The Luscious Legacy Project. Yes, I gather women together (writers and wanna-be writers, storytellers and story keepers) and we reminisce and tell stories and swap family recipes and make art. Pretty magical. And I do this online, Dad, with women from all over the world. I can just hear you saying, “No kidding.”
And guess what? I have my first Luscious Legacy Living Room Tour scheduled in San Rafael, California. That’s where we celebrated your fiftieth wedding anniversary, remember?
No kidding.
On your birthday, I cooked chicken with lemon and capers and Grandma’s vegetable soup and we brought your photo to the table along with your favorite lemon meringue pie. I’m sure the outsider looking in might have thought we’d gone mad, having dinner with a photo of our deceased dad propped up at the head of the table, but that was, indeed, a most magical meal.
I suspect we’ll share many, many more of those meals. A luscious legacy, indeed.
Your loving daughter,
Sue Ann
P.S. I just know you’ll get a kick out of this.
Zuppa di Josephine
Zuppa di Josephine (from the Sprinkle, Splash, Swirl & Savor™ collection)
cold pressed extra-virgin olive oil
9 cups homemade chicken stock
5 large carrots, sliced
1 large red bell pepper, cut into small, bitesize pieces
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 medium to large yellow onion, chopped
1 can San Marzano tomatoes
Ditalini pasta
1 splash white wine or white wine vinegar
1 or more heaping teaspoon(s) dried oregano
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
generous handful baby kale or spinach
• In a large saucepot, heat a large swirl of olive oil over medium low heat. Sauté onion and garlic until onion is translucent. Add carrots and red pepper and cook 1 minute or until vegetables are tender crisp, stirring frequently.
• Add a splash of wine to deglaze pot if necessary. (Add a splash of wine just for flavor!)
• Stir in the oregano, salt, and pepper, then the tomatoes. Cook for about two minutes.
• Add stock and heat soup to almost boiling. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the carrots are tender but not mushy.
• Meanwhile, boil water for pasta. Cook pasta (al dente), drain, rinse, and add a small swirl of olive oil or butter to keep pasta from sticking. Set pasta aside until soup is ready.
• Just before serving, add a generous handful of baby kale (it’s tender) or spinach to the pot. As soon as the greens wilt, the soup is ready.
• Ladle soup into bowls with a generous spoonful of Ditalini pasta. Keep the remaining pasta separate when you store leftover soup, otherwise it will absorb much of the liquid. Add a generous spoonful of cooked pasta to the soup each time you reheat it. Enjoy.
28 thoughts on “A Letter to My Father”
Sue Ann,
Heartfelt tribute to your dad. i understand your hurting heart I lost my dad Nov.8,2013 seems like yesterday. I would visit several times a week but Sunday was my dads day to indulge in my chocolate…I would sit breathless until he savored his first bite with his eyes closed and then the puckering of the lips and the loving nod of pleasure and joy. I cherish those moments and so glad that i could bring him the simple pleasure of joy that he looked forward to every Sunday. ….Thank you for bringing those moments back to me today Sunday. XXOO Ilene
Ilene, I too, felt compelled to feed my dad. His appetite became my barometer for health. As long as he was eating I could convince myself he was okay. As his cognitive function diminished he became almost childlike in his approach to food: a bite of his main course, a few bites of dessert, a nibble of potatoes, and back to dessert. He loved his sweets right up to the end. Happy Sunday. May we always have our memories to warm us and remind us of our dear dads.
PS my dad was in WWII and all of the places in France that you mentioned were
always part of his story telling about his tour of duty. Thank you !!!
Oh yes!
I could feel your love for you Dad radiating off the page… what a wonderful letter to him.
Thanks for stopping by, Laura. My dad was a very special man and quite a character, too.
Always a pleasure to read your words, Sue Ann!
Thank YOU, Rebecca, for sitting beside me, albeit virtually, as I wrote (and rewrote) this piece. xxoo
Thank you for sharing with us such a heartfelt and beautiful letter. Losing a parent is one of the most difficult things I have gone through. I think that the way you still remember him, honor him, and celebrate him is beautiful.
Thank YOU, Cathy, for reading and responding to this post. xxoo
Oh, Sue Ann. I was misty-eyed during most of this post and then broke down when I arrived (vicariously) at his birthday dinner. Sending you much love.
Michelle, there is something to be said for getting to know the parents of the people we love and interact with. I want you to know how much I enjoy ‘meeting’ your mother in your online spaces. In many ways her love and support around you remind me of the days my dad was coherent and so very proud of his girls.
What a wonderful picture of your dad – even richer than the photograph. Somehow more tangible. Sorrow does not always feel the same, deeper perhaps but with a twinge of gratefulness when it is someone we have deeply loved. While it´s a more tainted sorrow if the relationship were not that good. If there is a heaven indeed, I´m sure your Dad is sitting there smiling and looking down at you with the same love he felt when he was alive on earth.
Love,
Carina
Carina, that is such a good point. Holding gratitude in the space of deep sorrow is truly a gift. Thank you. xxoo
Perfect.
xxoo
I nearly wept at the end of this. The dinner, with his portrait and lemon meringue pie. Weep. Weep. I know how much he meant to you: the the food, the lemons, the conversations, the food shops where he’d get lost in talking. It’s these details that are so poignant.
The other day my sister and I were joking how my mother talks a lot and tells every detail of whatever it is she is discussing. And then my sister said, “Yes, but someday we won’t be able to listen to all those details.”
So I listen…
Goosebumps over here, Tracey. Yes, savor those details, all of them. Thank you for sharing that. Romping around with you, by the way, is like being with my dad. I look forward to our excursions and the meals we share. xxoo
lovely, sue ann. and robin’s drawing captures the man i’ve seen only in photos but wish i could have met.
“and then I wonder, does everyone torture themselves this way when they lose a loved one?” yes, they do. at least i do.
i am currently in france, and i have been wearing my mom’s diamond band every day. so she can “experience” my new adventures with me. like she used to in person. i miss her so very much. i understand.
Mmmmm, I love it that you’ve taken your mother with you to France and that you are sharing these precious moments with her as much as with us, April. xxoo
Dear Sue Ann,
I was wide awake at 2am, (another gift that sometimes comes with aging!) and started reading your blog. It is clear that this father of yours is still alive in you and always will be as teacher, inspirer and such a dear friend. Thanks for sharing him with us and all of your lovely pictures.
If more of us, especially women, processed the deep loves we have lost or long for, I am convinced there would be less depression or illness, with more joy and health.
May your living room group be filled with wonder.
Love, Gwen
Yes, Gwen, yes. Your words: “If more of us, especially women, processed the deep loves we have lost or long for, I am convinced there would be less depression or illness.” So much resonance here for me. I think we are culturally trained to “get over it already” rather than allowing the feelings to arise, and they will, and then honoring them. I see a need for ritual here as a way of marking these deep loves and keeping them alive and in service. xxoo
Hi Sue Ann
I agree with you, Sam didn’t suffer from dementia or depression. He suffered
from frustration…his mind said he could do anything but his body said no you can’t.
As we age that is a fact. I find that’s happening to me. Some people get angry or
agitated as they age. But if you accept this and enjoy what you can like good
conversation, nature and family (and chocolate) you will have peace of mind.
Actually Sam, it was his cognitive function that was impaired trapping him in a body that continued to function long after his mind no longer comprehended what was happening around him. A tragic loss for all of us who loved him and missed the joy he once radiated. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and memories here. I feel your light. I love it that you share his name.
It was so beautiful reading your letter to your Dad. As I was reading it, I reflected on my Dad – missing him everyday too. with love and big hugs. xx
Thank you for leaving a comment, Maria. May you memories of you dad bring you some joy, too. xxoo
What a beautifully vibrant tribute to your dad! Your words gave me a sense of him, I felt like I was peeking into your world and got to know your father for a brief moment. And I love that you continue your relationship with him – channelling him, writing to him, dining with him!
Yes, Laura, I never realized just how closely our loved ones live in us and through us until I lost my dad. Those bonds are deep. Thank you for reading. xxoo