I almost always let a story simmer a few days after writing. I then tweak or even rewrite. But not this time. Aside from a couple of necessary exceptions, the following is what streamed out three days ago:
My father was not a religious man. The few times he met with our minister was outside of the church to receive counsel for alcoholism. I believe that my sister and I attended Fairmount Presbyterian Church more than either of our parents. Although as I write this, it occurs to me that maybe they stayed away for a reason. With his drinking, they didn’t want to feel like outsiders or stir gossip. The truth is that I don’t know.
What I do know is that my dad’s death certificate says he died on March 31st, 1978. For the first time since his death, I felt compelled today to look up where Easter fell in 1978; Easter Sunday was on March 26th. I can’t believe that I have never considered this. He died only five days after Easter, the holiday and the season which celebrates rebirth and new beginnings.
I’ll admit that I have long held hope that my father might return in a way that I felt someday. I’m not sure if this would be called a rebirth or reincarnation, or just talking to the dead. I understood that he was gone, but maybe he could return in some form where I could communicate with him. I’ve written about signs; maybe he could send one to me. Or maybe I could talk to him through a dream.
It’s rare, but I did have one last year. I was in a large house with a series of doors. I finally opened one door, and dad was in there sitting in a chair, but it didn’t go as I had always hoped. Mom was sitting next to him so there was no real conversation.
As a teenager, and then a young woman in her 20s and 30s, I still had an overwhelming need to set things straight, to get closure. I wasn’t home when he died. In fact, I was out of state.
I always hoped he was nearby when I got married and his best friend walked me down the aisle. I certainly told him when his second grandson was born in 1990. I hoped he felt that deep pride, but I never knew for sure.
I told him once that he would have loved all the developments in technology. He would think that the computer was more fascinating than a car, and he loved cars. It would have been the greatest joy to play a computer game with him.
I told him when mom was beginning to fail, and to please help her in any way possible.
But if I ever did get a chance to truly communicate in a two-way conversation, I would whisper;
“Did you think we would be better off without you, dad?”
Maybe, he might reply, honestly.
“But we weren’t,” I would softly admonish him.
“Did you see this day coming before it happened?” I continue.
Although I think I can answer this one. I was dating someone in high school and we often stayed up late in our living room.
“I know you liked him,” I would say to dad. “You even came haltingly down the stairs one night while we were whispering on the couch, and you shook his hand. You shook his hand!!”
“Take good care of her,” you had said.
“Why did you say that? Christ, I swear you knew.”
Someday, we should be reunited, although by then, my questions won’t matter anymore. But for now, I’m here.
And so, I’ll still hold on to the hope of this season, and I will always look for you to return, to be present, even if it’s only for a moment.
Leavingthedooropen.com 
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