Missing you

Hey Dad,

I haven't been writing to you lately, but it's not because I haven't been thinking about you.  If you want to know the truth, I still think about you all the time.  Constantly.  Things just seem to be getting worse instead of better.  Everyone uses 6 months as a very rough framework for grieving - the first six months are the worst, they say.  But you know what?  We're into the second six months now, it's been 7 and a half months since you died, and I would say right now is the worst.  Right now, and yesterday, and the day before that and that and that.  The cocoon of numbness that shock provides is completely gone and I'm just raw and exposed to the elements.  And the elements hurt, the heat hurts, the air hurts, everything hurts.

I think I've entered into the angry stage of grieving, because I feel angry all the time.  I picture punching people in the face when I'm out on the street.  I am so sorry -- I know you would absolutely not approve of that, but it's not like I'm going around actually doing it, it's just what I feel like doing.  I feel like smashing glass against walls screaming, and then screaming more, and breaking down into a pool of mush and just crying.  Just giving up.

If we ever broke a glass in the house on Thompson Street, you acted as if toxic chemicals had been released into the atmosphere.  You'd immediately banish everyone from the room, sweep, vacuum, and then insist that shoes were worn at all times in case any tiny little slivers of glass were left lurking, waiting to kill us.  If I smashed a glass now, I'd probably just let it lie.  I feel listless and sad and I just don't want to try.  I want to run away and not face things and not acknowledge your death at all.  So, denial, then?  Anger and denial together, is that how the stages work?

You know when you feel yourself doing the wrong thing, the unhealthy thing, the non-productive thing?  And you can acknowledge it, but you can't change it.  Or you don't want to change it.  Or you just don't care.  You are always always always going to be gone, aren't you?

a

Splish Splash

Somewhat incongruously, you really loved water parks. Adventure-type parks in general, but especially water parks. 

When we were kids you and Mom took us to Six Flags, and then some corollary of it whose name I can't think of. It was a giant water park, and I remember your infectious enthusiasm for it. We went down gigantic slides, and I remember going through some underground tunnel slide and cannon-balling out into a (FREEZING) pond. I slapped into the water and it was so, so painful and so cold, I remember that sensation vividly many years later. 

Then, in 1991, a water park called Splish Splash opened, about 45 minutes from our house. I was what - 14 - and Amy a couple years younger, but you immediately asked us both if we wanted to go. Of course we did. I am not sure, but I don't think Mom came? 

Regardless, it was so much cleaner and nicer than the park in NJ. That said, I remember some kind of log flume, and some tubing, and I guess some slides, but that was it. 

It was my birthday on Friday day, and all I wanted to do was go to the beach. Which I'm glad to say I did. On Friday, Saturday, and today, Sunday. We had a big fun BBQ, and Meredith and her kids came up to visit. Peggy and Jim came, and Mom and Marc, and Ellen and Bert. I missed you though. Meredith came through in the goofy animal card department, but I didn't get one from you for the first time in a long time. 

But your spirit lived on, in all my swimming hijinks this weekend. I am so glad that I shared my passion for water with you. 

x

M

Tomatoes

They are growing really well this year, Dad. I have high hopes. The herb garden is going wild, and I still have peaches growing on my tree (praying for them to get ripe and be delicious).

Summer feels pretty tough without you. We went to Port Jeff for Father's Day and had a BBQ. It was hard to get the BBQ started, it took Mom, Marc, and Idriss, a group effort. Mom said she really missed you - it doesn't exactly feel like summer without you manning the cooking efforts on the deck.

The pool isn't open - is it possible that I had my last swim in it without knowing it was my last swim, as you didn't know either? The closed pool is imbued with way too much power and symbolism in my mind. So bleak and sad to see.

Golfers are out in full force, and yesterday I took a detour because of traffic and drove by a crowded course, then had to pull over because it was so upsetting for you to not be out there, starting the holiday weekend with nine holes. Or something like that.

 I don't know Dad. It's been six months. I don't miss you any less. And every sunny day I resent that you aren't here to enjoy it, too. Not fair, not fair, not fair, is the refrain in my mind.

Also, I got laid off last week. I have 90 days to work still, and I'm fine. I wish I could speak with you though, about my future plans. Right now I'm focused on getting some ripe tomatoes and peaches. I just wish I could share them with you.

Love M

Happy father's day...

At the risk of sounding like a millennial twit, I can't even...

Recently I saw this list that F. Scott Fitzgerald sent to his daughter Scottie, at the end of a letter, when she was 11. I think you would have liked it, so I'm pasting it below. 

Love M

Things to worry about:

Worry about courage
Worry about cleanliness
Worry about efficiency
Worry about horsemanship

Things not to worry about: 

Don’t worry about popular opinion
Don’t worry about dolls
Don’t worry about the past
Don’t worry about the future
Don’t worry about growing up
Don’t worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don’t worry about triumph
Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don’t worry about mosquitoes
Don’t worry about flies
Don’t worry about insects in general
Don’t worry about parents
Don’t worry about boys
Don’t worry about disappointments
Don’t worry about pleasures
Don’t worry about satisfactions

Things to think about: 

What am I really aiming at? 
How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to: 

(a) Scholarship
(b) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them? 
(c) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it? 

With dearest love,

Daddy

Father's Day

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

I miss you always.  I wish you were grilling us burgers on the deck today.  I wish, I wish.

I love you so much,

Amy

Monthly flowers

You really loved lots of flowers, and as I've written before we loved chatting about what's happening in your garden or in mine. 

One thing that I'm starting to slowly understand, that I didn't before, is how fleeting many flowers are in terms of how long they bloom, and how cyclical they are. 

So I'm waiting forever for the peonies, but they weren't here for long :-(

But at the same time, I'm starting to understand the order they come in. 

April: crocuses.

May: tulips, peonies, fruit trees.

June: glorious roses, salvia, hydrangea, foxglove, wild flowers. 

July: ? I don't know. It's next month. I think Phlox, sunflowers, dahlias, echinacea? 

This is obviously not an exhaustive list. But I find it comforting, somehow, to know that everyone who gardens or cares about gardening is waxing poetic in June about wild roses. I know you would have been showing off the rose bushes, too. 

Love M

Beach days

You know how much I love the beach. It was a beautiful weekend, sunny and hot, and I swam for the last three days in a row.

Don't worry, I slathered myself in sunscreen. 

I just remembered today, when I was irritating Idriss with my incessant demands that he put sunblock on, how annoying you were about it growing up. 

You used to take us to the ocean beach on the south shore a few times a summer. We'd get there and be SOOOOOO EXCITED - we were little kids on a big sandy beach with big waves in front of us. Much to our chagrin though, when we arrived you would make us pile on the sunblock and then wait a full TWENTY MINUTES before getting wet, so it could "absorb" into our skin.

Dad, that was torture. Twenty minutes to a hot, sweaty, excited kid on the beach may as well be a year. If you had a digital watch at the time, I wouldn't have put it past you to time it exactly. That was so frustrating! I just so vividly remember dying with impatience to get into the water. 

Just like I always am now! Some things never change. 

xxxxxx

M

Dog encyclopedia

You were a man who liked facts, information. Not that context and shades of grey weren't of interest, but as a general rule you liked precision. I remember in Junior High School that my teacher told us that the US entered WW2 in 1942, and you were horrified. You also corrected that detail quickly: December (8th?), 1941.

So obviously, growing up we had a lot of reference books. A whole set of World Book encyclopedias, a set of children's encyclopedias (I used them to look up glossy animal photos, of course), law textbooks, dictionaries, etc.

One funny addition to that canon was a dog encyclopedia. I am not sure where you got it, or when exactly, but any time you heard about a new breed, or if we were wondering about a certain type of dog's temperament, out came the book.

Just a couple of years ago, there was a puppy that I saw frequently out on walks in Tribeca, near my office. I can't remember the name of the breed for the life of me, but it was absurdly cute, even-tempered, and calm, and I tried to convince you and mom to get one. Out came the book again - but it wasn't in there! It's a new breed, and they come from Canada. I remember distinctly feeling sad for you that your book wasn't up to snuff. I need to look for this book next time I visit Mom.

xx
M

The Biggest Sky

It's my last night in New Mexico.  I'm supposed to be keeping a blog about my trip, but I'm not really, not yet.  Because it turns out that my trip is really about you, isn't it?  It's hard to separate anything happening right now from the grief that is still so fresh and so raw.  So acute.  The grief that hits every time I'm alone.

Today I passed through some of the most breathtaking scenery I've ever encountered, it was like driving within a giant snow-globe in a Swiss alpine village with a Costa Rican town nestled inside of the massive domed sky.  It seems that beautiful things make me cry lately; they make me think of you.  And so it came about that I was sobbing while driving along this ribbon road in the bluest of all blue skies.  So many times, I've had to look around in a full 360 -- how can there be that much sky?  Is it really here?  You would know, you would tell me about the sky.

I went to dinner at a lovely restaurant just outside of Taos, it looked like an old farmhouse, and the details of the room I ate in were just perfect -- bright white walls and old lighting fixtures and a grey painted barn-like floor.  It was gentle and welcoming and peaceful and bright.  You would have loved it there.

The way the candle light flickered bothered me a little, but not too badly, and I thought of that last dinner I had with you at the restaurant in Port Jeff -- Old Field.  There were flickering candles and a fire going there, and I had to change my seat twice to try and situate myself so that the flashing and flickering didn't set off a storm in my head.  I started thinking of that dinner, and you, and my waitress was a lovely girl and you would have asked her name and where she was from, and all of the sudden I was overcome.

I was about to become that woman sitting alone in a lovely restaurant bursting into tears, making the other patrons uncomfortable.  I couldn't get you out of my head, and I thought well maybe he didn't die, maybe he just left us for another family and he is going to walk into this restaurant right now with his other wife and his other kids, and I could see you there, in a short-sleeved pink polo shirt tucked into khakis, and I could hear you, hear your voice and your laugh, and see you smile, and you were there, Dad, you were just there.  And I wouldn't have been mad, if it was just that you had left us for another family, I would have been so relieved.

I realized the flood gates were opening and I really had to fight back the tears, I stared at the white wall and I bit my lip and I forced myself to think of anything but you.  But, I couldn't.  I needed to pay the check and get the hell out of there.  It felt like you died right there and then, in that moment, for the very first time.

After paying, I ran out to parking lot, got into my rented car and burst into tears.  Sitting there sobbing in the car and blowing my nose into rough paper napkins, I closed my eyes and was transported back to the parking lot of the hospital in December, sitting there sobbing in my car, snot dripping everywhere.

When I finally pulled myself together, I started driving again.  I just wanted to move, to go anywhere and everywhere.  And the sky was starting to light on fire, and it was just endless sky everywhere you looked, and I wanted to chase the setting sun, and chase the light and the clouds and the burning colors.

So I kept driving, and the turns I made were based on following the light and wanting to drive into the perfection in the sky.  And I wound up on these tiny deserted dirt roads, and everywhere there was sky.  And blue here, and giant fluffy white clouds there, and burning orange circles there, and purple mountains over there.  And I just started talking to you.  I could feel you in that sky, Dad, and I knew you were there with me and I knew you loved it and appreciated it just as much as I did.  You know I'm not much for spirituality.  I don't believe in an afterlife or anything like that...  but you were there with me today, you were there in that sky.  You just were.  I love you so much.

amy

Bleak times

Dad,

I am pretty sure I just said goodbye to Eliot for the last time. I had to hold him still while Marc gave him intravenous fluids. He will barely eat and drink, and it is heartbreaking, and I think Marc's heart is already broken.

After I held him for the fluids, Idriss and I had drive back to Sea Cliff. But I was so upset that I went and sat on the swing on the front porch. I wasn't super confident that it wouldn't break, given how rusty the chains are, but you aren't around to fix it, are you...

Anyway, it was a beautiful, soft evening with a robust and strange Santa Ana-like breeze, and as I sat on the swing with tears rolling down my face, I sought a way to pull myself together, to find a way to be brave for Marc.

I've been watching Longmire lately, which you loved, and I thought of the Native American spiritual ceremonies on the show. So I tried to imagine your spirit in the intense wind flowing every which way. I imagined your strength coming to me, through the breeze, and it helped. I said goodbye to Marc, to Eliot, to Mom, and we left. I know if you were here, you would be a rock throughout - so I'm trying the best I can to be that for Marc, but I'm not you, so there's that.

I love you Dad.

Five long months...

Today is five months, Dad. 

You are everywhere lately. My peach tree is growing actual peaches, and I know that would have just tickled you pink. Every time we discuss how the hydrangea are growing in, what the tomatoes are doing, how the mint is taking over the yard, I know how you would have liked to be a part of that discussion. Bartleby is still my constant gardening assistant and companion, and he loves to lie amongst the strawberries and lettuces (our arugula is growing like a weed!) just after I water. 

Last week we spent the weekend at Mom's, we went to Bloomin Haus and got tons of hibiscus and impatiens, and planted all the planters on the deck. We used the marble chips you got to facilitate drainage in the planters, but where were you, Dad, cutting the circles of screen for extra draining guarantees? We skipped that step - none of us could bear to do it. 

Lately I've been seeing Allium around, blooming in many neighbors' yards. I remember we used to have a few and you were crazy about them; I'm going to plant some bulbs in the fall for you. I have a running list of things to plant that I think you would like, including some fancy tulips, columbine, and so on. 

It's been a mostly warm and lovely May, and it would have been an incredible golf month. My train ride takes me by Glen Head country club daily and I always think of you as a skinny teenager struggling to lug around people's golf clubs. 

The world is definitely still falling apart, Dad, so no changes there. But our world is also a hot mess. Eliot is dying, and so is Mom's friend Paula, and it is a lot of pain and grief all at once. I know you would remind us that life isn't fair as a means of getting through this brutal period, but at the same time, I am not sure that we need life to be rubbing it in quite so much. 

On the plus side, next week is our five year anniversary. We had talked in the fall about having a party, but without you that doesn't feel right. So Idriss and I are going upstate for the long weekend, to the deep countryside, and I am so looking forward to time to relax and reflect and be away from people. 

I love you so much Dad. I miss you so, so much today and always. Love M

Purple Mountain Majesty

I was shooting out in Southern Utah this week, down south of Moab in the desert of Indian Creek.  The scenery was breathtaking, but the shoot was stressful and busy and I didn't have much time to myself.  We were filming a Land Rover commercial, and our "hero" vehicle was a gleaming white Land Rover Discovery.

Because brands are very specific about the way their product is filmed, the car had to be cleaned many times over our three day shoot.  One time, we were all set up and ready to film, but we were waiting on the car to have its bath.  I walked over to JP, the car wrangler (who you would have loved, by the way, a very interesting man from Scotland, thoughtful and knowledgeable and fatherly), and offered to help him clean the car so I could speed things along.

The way he explained to me exactly what had to be done, exactly which cloths to use (there were at least four different shades of blue and each one served a different purpose), the seriousness with which he took this process, it all reminded me of you.  It probably took him longer to explain everything to me than it would have for him to just do the whole thing himself.  And, of course, even after his long explanation he was reluctant to really let me do much -- he was obviously convinced I would get it wrong.

But, finally he told me I could dry off the top of the vehicle.  Standing there perched on the top of the back tire and leaning over the moon roof of this Land Rover with a rag while a crew of 20 people waited for me to finish, I chuckled to myself.  It was a sight you would have loved to have seen, and one in which I would have told you about afterwards and made a joke about how the money you spent on my college education was going to good use.

Afterwards, walking down and away from our set, which was a deserted campground at the top of a pile of rocks, I saw this sight, these mountains bathed in purple, and I just burst into tears.  Where are you, Dad?  Where are you?  Every time I saw those mountains over the next few days at exactly the time of the day when they turn purple in the setting sun, I thought of you and I cried behind my sunglasses.  I crouched behind cars and hid from everyone and just took a minute to cry for you.  God, I miss you so much, Dad.

love amy

Double bow

You taught me to tie my shoes, and you taught me that it is absolutely and completely critical and non-negotiable and just plain foolish and courting disaster to not tie double bows.

You imagined those poor fools who didn't know this out in the world as tripping on their untied shoelaces, falling on their faces and breaking their noses and knocking out teeth as a result. Or falling down an escalator. Or into a ladder and knocking someone else off. Etc. I am sure you had more scenarios than this.

Even now, when I'm trying on, say, sneakers, I put the shoe on, tie a double bow, and walk around the store to see if it fits. I mean...it is a force of habit that cannot be broken.

I was reminded of this yesterday because I have this cute new pair of silver shoes with laces, and the laces are really short. It makes it very hard to tie a double bow, but I realized yesterday that if I can't I'll just need to get new shoelaces for them. No alternatives!

Love M

Beekman Redux

It's funny Megan wrote about the Beekman Towers.  That hotel and that entire area of NYC is imprinted in me, it's my first impression of Manhattan.  Those exciting trips into the city when we rode in taxis laden with shopping bags, where we got dressed up and went to fancy dinners and shows, sometimes even went to the apartments of fancy friends of yours and Mom's. NYC around the UN and the Beekman, that is the NYC of my childhood, the NYC of you and Mom dressed to the nines and treating us like princesses.

One time, you let me go up to the top of the Beekman with you so you could sit at the bar and sip a martini.  I was way too young to be in a bar, and I was thrilled at being up there on top of the world with you, looking out of the skyline from the wrap around balcony.  I can still feel the air in the lobby, in the suites, hear Megan shushing me whenever I made a single noise while she was trying to sleep in our shared sofa bed.

The Beekman is where I learned about good tipping, from you.  Michael the bellhop was your favorite, and he always called you by name (Mr. Dempsey) and you in turn referred to him by name.  I want to say that Michael was actually a cousin or something of the Mendelsohn's, but I can't remember exactly; I just feel like there was some vague connection there.

Anyway, tipping etiquette -- then, as now -- stressed me out immensely.  I've never figured out how to be a smooth tipper, like you were.  I would watch every time Michael or one of the other bellhops did something for us to see how you handled tipping.  One time I noticed you didn't tip when someone brought our bags to the room.  I asked you about it and you told me that you saved all the tips up for the end of the stay, when you would hand a nice big tip to each of the bellhops.  I worried that since they didn't know this was your plan that they might secretly hate us and think you were cheap.  You were not worried about this at all -- I don't know if it was experience, or our history of staying there, or what, but they knew that they'd be well taken care of by the end of our stay.  I've always thought of this, your smoothness with tipping, and never been able to replicate it.  There's not a slick bone in my body!  But you could be really slick sometimes, and picturing you in the Beekman always makes me think of this young, handsome, sharply dressed father, hiding a $20 bill in his hand as he smoothly handed it over to an equally discreet bellhop.

My worldview was shaped so heavily by those trips to the Beekman, those early visits to NYC.  Wandering into that area is like wandering into the past.  Sometimes I can't believe it's the same city I live in, the city from those trips.  What a joy they were, always.

love a

Summertime

Winter is officially gone.  Per usual, there was no gradual transition.  It's cold, so cold you can't imagine what warm sunshine would feel like, and then almost the next instant it's so hot you're running to put your sweaty face in front of an air conditioning vent to cool off.  And despite how quickly it happens, by the time the air is really hot and sticky, winter is such a distant memory that it almost doesn't feel real.

So all traces of winter are gone, and with it your death has receded into the realm of the surreal.  It feels very much as if it never happened, and at the same time as if it happened just one minute ago, as if it is always happening.  I haven't been writing to you lately.  I'm very busy with work again, and when I'm not working I'm migraining.  Usually, I'm doing both at the same time.  My mind is lost in the world of cameras and cranes and red rock deserts and canyons as I prep for a shoot in Utah, and when I have a minute to think, I am consumed by migraine, which erases all thoughts and feelings other than a dull nausea and a general unease.  It's almost impossible to feel any emotion other than misery during a migraine, and it's utterly impossible to envision the past or the future, to imagine what it feels like not to have a migraine.

But in the moments, in the very rare clear moments when I take a pause from my work and I don't have a migraine, I think of you, Dad.  Always of you.  You and your casual, happy demeanor.  Your blue eyes, your gravelly voice, your stoicism.  Don't talk about it, don't think about it.  This was Mom's advice to me a few weeks ago when I burst into tears on the phone with her.  I miss Dad, I had said.  And we are all fighting our own private battles with grief, and for her at that moment she didn't want to let grief overcome her, so she shut down the conversation with "don't think about it, don't talk about it."  If ever there was a motto for our family, that might have been it.  There are so many things you didn't talk about, I wish I could have known more.

But more than that I wish you were here to enjoy the beginning of summer, to be elated by golf season getting back into swing (pun for your benefit).  To work in the garden and open the pool and check the temperature every day.  To seek compliments on how nice the pool and the yard look.  To sit on the back deck, grill steaks and hamburgers on your barbecue.  To ask who wants cheese and who doesn't on their burger, and then to forget and put cheese on all of them.  To come home from a morning of golf and head up for your afternoon nap.  To take drives out east with Mom.  To celebrate Mother's Day with us tomorrow, and Father's Day in June, a day which I am dreading the approach of already.

Miss you, Dad.  More than you know.

amy

The Beekman

The other day, on my way to an appointment, I found myself walking right by the UN. If I had had more time, I would have gone to see the Beekman, the hotel we often stayed in with you and mom when we were kids.

You loved it because it was all suites - so you and mom got the bedroom, if Marc was with us he got a cot, and Amy and I had to share the sofa bed.

When it was just you and mom, you usually went to the Helmsley Palace (now the NY Palace) where I've stayed for work, which is just a lovely place.

We didn't travel too much as a family, but we did spend quite a few long weekends in the city over the holidays.

When we were very little, we spent a few days doing touristy things in the city with the Mendelsohns. We went to the top of the Empire State building. We walked up 5th Ave, and went into the Trump building that had the waterfall in the lobby (or down 1 floor?). Wow! we thought. A waterfall. In. A. Building. That was crazy and I remember how giddy it made me feel.

We visited the Museum of Natural History, and I refused to walk under the giant whale, because I thought it was going to fall on me. I remember going all the way around the perimeter of that giant room with Mom.

And we went out to dinner at Windows on the World, and there was a band, and we actually danced on a Saturday night on Manhattan, you and me, all dressed up, with the city lights spread out before us, and it really felt like we were on top of the world, not just looking at it.

Years later, you let me plan our itineraries when we went into the city - what shows to see, what galleries to stop into, and so on. You got me a membership to the Met, and we also used to see special exhibits at Moma, too, like the Matisse retrospective that was to this day one of the loveliest things I've ever experienced.

I've written on this blog before about how you helped shape my love of music, but I think I was wrong to limit that to music. You helped me feel like it's my place to see beautiful paintings, sculpture, to enjoy a beautiful building or scene. Mom too - of course, nobody has a sense of beauty like she does - but you were a part of that.

It's been a little while since I've written on here last, Dad, but you've been on my mind more than ever. Sometimes I think the less I write the more I think about you. I have a lot more to say, don't you worry.

Love you.
M

The Power of Observation

Megan and Mom and Marc have got me hooked on mysteries.  What is it about mysteries and the Dempsey family?

Of course, now I want to be a detective.  Do you think I would be a good detective?  You would have been a good one.

The other day I was wondering if I could get a tiny tattoo on the inside of my left wrist and hide it for eternity from Mom, who would hate it.  As you know I wear my watch on my right wrist despite being right-handed.  I thought, well I could just switch my watch over to my left hand every time I was going to see Mom, and the band would hide it.  I knew that if you were here, I would never get away with that.  You would notice within minutes if I changed the wrist I wore my watch on, and you would ask me about it, and probably before I even had a chance to answer you would have discovered the tattoo.  You noticed everything!

I can think of more than a few times when you noticed me doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing and you just caught my eye, made use of raised eyebrows to make sure I noted that you had seen me, and then never brought it up again.  Detective Discreet Dempsey, that's what they'd call you.

Miss you.
A

The Most Interesting Person in the World

Thinking about that chandelier in the dining room, I remembered a photography assignment I had in High School for a self-portrait.  Clad in all black with hundreds of layers of black eyeliner circling my raccoon eyes, I set up my picture with my face being lit dramatically by only the lantern bulb from the chandelier.  It was a very moody, very serious, very deep (obviously) portrait of a 16 year-old suburban girl who was the most interesting person in the world.

My cat Barry is one of the most absurd creatures on earth, everything he does looks ridiculous and goofy and makes me laugh out loud.  But, the best part about Barry is that he takes himself utterly seriously -- he looks like some sort of prancing buffoon, but he thinks he is the king of lions.  His old owner described one of his poses as his "Most Interesting Cat in the World" pose.  Several times a day I laugh out loud and say, "Barry, how do you take yourself seriously?"

A sixteen year-old girl who has faced no serious hardship to speak of and yet is dressed as if she's in mourning for all of life and sets up a moody self-portrait lit only by the lantern of a chandelier is not dissimilar to Barry, in a lot of ways.  How did you take me seriously?  But, you did.  Or, at least you did long enough to help me with my photography assignment.  I went to you to help me take the actual photo and to set up my composition, and you didn't laugh once.  You took it as seriously as I did, utterly patient and devoted to the project.

While you teased us endlessly (which has given me a fondness for people who can make me laugh about myself), you also knew when it was important to support us and take us seriously.  This was one of those moments.  I would have been humiliated if you had mocked my very serious artwork and my very serious process and my very serious eyeliner, but you would never have done so.  You worked with me on the composition and you looked through the viewfinder and pressed the buttons on the camera.

You were supportive when you read my self-serious college essays and with all of my photography.  And I can picture your face, your smile, it wasn't fake.  You were proud.  You loved helping me with photography -- we picked out my DSLR camera together, you gave me a zoom lens for it for Christmas one year.  You were happy if we were happy, in the most true sense of it.  Not to mention that you loved gadgets and reading the instruction booklet on a new toy was like Christmas for you.

You took me to hockey games and hockey card trading shows (??) when I decided I was obsessed with ice hockey.  You even found a way to get me a signed jersey from an old client of yours, Bobby Nystrom, who used to play for the Islanders.  We built stilts in the driveway one time when I guess I wanted to... what, audition for the circus?  You were kind and supportive and truly did just want us to follow our passions and be happy.  How lucky we were, as kids and as adults, to have a father like you.  Thanks for taking me seriously, Dad.  I love you.

Amy

Toasters and Tires

However many posts Megan and I write about your safety freak tendencies, we never seem to cover off on everything.  A few forgotten: toasters and tires.

First, toasters.  I was lead to believe (by you) that if someone were to stick a knife or a fork in a toaster, then that person and everyone in the room would instantly die.  This extended to even going near a toaster with a knife or a fork: instant death.  You might never have actually said these exact words, but the gravity with which you issued warnings about utensils and toasters conveyed this exact message.  Fork + toaster = instant death.

No part of me ever questioned the validity of this lesson or wondered if maybe you were exaggerating ever so slightly about the danger presented here, this was just the truth.  Several years ago I was staying with a friend and her family at their lake house in upstate New York.  We were all sitting around drinking coffee and having a casual breakfast one morning, when I saw my friend approaching a toaster with a fork in her hand.  Oh my god.  I could see it all unfolding, her intentions were clear: she was going to use that fork to retrieve the bagel from the toaster oven, and in the process she was going to kill us all.  I dove across the room in slow motion, screaming "nooooo" and nearly tackled my friend.  I was too late.  She had already stuck the fork in the bagel, which was in the toaster, and pulled the bagel out.  And you know what?  Not one of us was dead.  She and her father both looked at me like I was insane, and I sort of brushed it off.  I knew I had to wait until later to sit alone and re-examine all of the lessons I'd learned from early childhood to adulthood.

Just a couple of days after you died, the house on Thompson Street played a terrible trick on us.  I was sitting and reading (or maybe binge watching TV) in the breakfast room, and Mom was headed to bed. She came back a couple minutes later and beckoned me into the dining room.  "Something weird happened," she said, "when I went to turn the lights off and now they are stuck on."  She tried to turn the lights in the chandelier in the dining room off, and when she'd done so she had heard a loud pop and then the switch had ceased working.  The chandelier bulbs were stuck on.  The second switch in the hallway had no effect on them either.  Hmmm, I thought.  We didn't want to leave those lights going all night, and I was a little bit scared that there was going to be an electrical fire.  I really, really wanted you to be there to deal with it.  You would have known instantly what was wrong and how to fix it.

Brilliantly, I came up with the idea of unscrewing each individual lightbulb from in the chandelier to get them to turn off for the night, and we could deal with the broken switch in the morning.  Covering my hand with my sweatshirt, I unscrewed the bulbs one by one.  As I did so, I wondered if I was making some serious mistake that was going to cause the house to blow up.  Again I really, really wished I could ask you.  Would you say what I was doing was wildly insane and stupid?  Or would you say that it was the right thing to do until we could get an electrician in?  I had absolutely no idea, but I pretended to Mom that I was completely confident in my plan and that all was well.

As soon as Mom went to bed, I ran upstairs and woke up Marc.  He grumbled from the other side of the door, what?!  "Ummm," I said, "I may or may not have just set the house to blow up over night.  Can you please come take a look?"  Marc came downstairs and examined things and said that I had done the right thing and all was well and that the house was not going to explode overnight.  However, from his slight hesitancy I could tell that what he was really thinking was that he wished he could ask you and that he should pretend for my sake that he knew what he was talking about, as I had pretended for Mom's sake.

If the seriousness of going near a toaster with a fork was what you made it out to be, I can't imagine how you would have reacted had you seen me with my sweatshirt sleeve pulled over my hand unscrewing the hot bulbs on the broken chandelier.  It felt like I was breaking all the rules.

Your other obsession was spare tires.  This past summer, I got a flat tire driving home from Jennifer's wedding on Long Island.  I got it fixed that night, and then forgot to get a back-up spare tire.  You told me that I needed to get one immediately.  I said yes, sure, I will soon.  You cannot drive without one, you said.  Yep, I continued to placate you.  Then you launched an email, text, and voicemail campaign that would have any outsider thinking you worked for the spare tire lobby.  Relentless.  I finally got the back up and about a week later got another flat tire on the way out of town one weekend.  Triple A came to fix it, but it was too late to find a tire shop to get a back up that night.  I would have to delay my trip until morning, unless I drove to Pennsylvania with no spare.  The Triple A guy told me I could chance it, and I looked at him like he had suggested I stick a fork in a toaster while lying in a bathtub: "Um, no, my father would kill me if I drove without a spare."  I did wait until morning, and I do have a spare tire, and I do not put utensils in toasters, and amazingly I did not start an electrical fire with the chandelier in the dining room.  And I miss you.

Love a

One of those days...

I'm sorry.  I just emailed Megan and called her a "stupid fascist" for making me cry with her gardening post.  It's just that I could see so clearly what she was describing: you going on and on, extolling the virtues of the gardening bench as if you were selling it on an infomercial.  You loved explaining things and showing off the features of gadgets.

And today's just one of those days that I wanted to pretend you didn't die, you know?  I just wanted to take a break from it for a day.  I went to the blog casually because Megan said she had posted, and I figured I'd give it a quick read.  I've got a lot of other stuff I've been trying to sort through mentally today, and after spending all of the morning and the first half of the afternoon in the haze of a migraine, I've been trying to be productive this evening.

So it caught me by surprise to read Megan's post and to picture you so clearly, and to hear your slow voice, and to burst into tears.  I guess today isn't, actually, a day in which you didn't die.  There's no break from it, it still happened.  And I still wish it hadn't.  But, I'm sorry, Dad, that I called your other daughter (LFD) a stupid fascist.  She knows I didn't mean it.

I'm still the MFD, right?

Love you.

a

Gardening bench

Since we moved back to NY three years ago, we've started gardening. Until last summer, when we moved to Sea Cliff, we did all our gardening at your house. You lucked out! That was a huge help for you and meant that Mom stopped bugging you about a lot of the gardening work.

One day, during a particularly rigorous weeding session, you gave me a gardening bench to sit on. A gardening bench, I thought scornfully? That's for old people with bad backs.

Well, it was kind of amazing, actually. It's comfy and sturdy and really did help me last longer than I would have just crouching or bending down to grab the seemingly endless weeds and vines. Anyway, I asked you about the bench, and per your usual treatment of gear, you gushed about it and all the bench's virtues. The top comes off for washing. If you turn it upside down, there is a pad you can use for kneeling down. And on and on.

I said I might get one and you winked and me, and said, Megs, don't buy a bench! Next time you and Mom came over, around my birthday, you brought me my own gardening bench as a gift.

It's spring now, and if you were here, Dad, we would be going over everything that's blooming in detail. Let me tell you what's happening in our garden:
- The peach tree is getting leaves and little pink flowers are going to open any day now. I am saying prayers that the flowers are precursors to fruit...
- The very first flower opened on the camellia bush, it's a pinkish red
- All of the hydrangeas, which we cut back the way you advised us to, are growing leaves, both from the old branches and from the bottom up
- I just cut back the butterfly bushes, which you're supposed to leave until early spring
- The little tree you and Mom gave me (at the same time as the gardening bench) was the first thing to get leaves in the whole garden
- The lilac has tons of buds and could burst out any time
- Idriss is in heaven because his gigantic mint patch is coming back in, and soon he'll be able to cut the mint for tea. Our thyme and chives are also back
- The strawberry plants are getting their first flowers and tiny fruits
- The little holly in the planter died (I didn't like it that much anyway)
- I planted two small rhododendrons in the back corner in the hopes that they'll cheer up that area
- I am planning a small shade garden in that corner near the privet, with astilbe and Japanese anemone

I have looked for organic heirloom tomatoes but I guess it's too early to plant them yet. Same goes for the pink peonies I'm hoping to find soon.

It's a beautiful April, Dad. It's so hard that you are not hear to chat about the garden and maybe start golfing. Every blue sky, every clear sunset, every mild afternoon I think of you. I wish you could have had one last spring.

When the Lions Come

The other day I watched a small boy go to his father for protection when a small house cat entered the room.  The father was squatting down, tying the shoe of his five year-old son, and when the two year-old spotted the cat, he side-stepped over to the crouching father, eyes on the cat while one hand reached out to his father for support.  He didn't hide behind his father's back, just kept one hand on him to reassure himself, for protection should he need it.  So casual was the whole thing, it didn't seem as if the father even noticed.

Chuckling to myself, because really what was there to be afraid of with this tiny housecat, the older child looked up at me and said that his brother was scared of the cat.  I smiled again.  Then the small boy looked at me, one hand still perched on his father's back, and formed his words slowly and carefully.  He's at the age where sentences are still a big deal, where they take effort to compose.  "I'm scared of him because he scratches."  Deadly serious.  "Fair enough," I said, "that's a pretty good reason to be afraid of something."  And I looked at the cat again, and thought, well, yes, relative to the size of the boy, the cat was huge.  To him, it was as if a lion had come into the room.  I was a bit overcome by the moment, the casual safety the boy sought out in his father, the gesture of protection offered by the Dad just by virtue of his very existence.

It made me think of the ocean, when we were kids, and standing in the salty waves with you, tall and strong, my protector.  The regular beach was the beach near our house, which was Long Island Sound, where we'd go nearly every day in the summer with Mom and loll about on round plastic tubes in the calm, flat water.  Scratch our feet on the rocky sand.  But the ocean, the ocean was a grand treat which we would sometimes drive to on weekends with you and Mom together.  Going to the ocean was a very, very big deal, and the waves were massive, and the sand was free from rocks, and the water was so salty it stung your eyes, and there was always ice cream and hot pretzels.

You'd take us out into the rough water and we'd stand up to our waists and let the waves come at us, breaking just before they got to us and sweeping us up in their frothy white aftermath.  You'd hold on tight to our hands so we couldn't be swept too far away, and I had no fear when my hand was in your hand.  Occasionally, the force of the wave would be so strong that I'd lose my grip on your hand and get thrown about under the water, not knowing which way was up or down, being pounded into the sand, sand in my bathing suit and mouth.  But your searching hand would always scoop me back up and I'd be safe again.  Sometimes you and Megan would walk out farther than I could stand and I would beg to come with you.  Sometimes you would let me come and would hold me up the whole time.  How glorious it was, to be in those waves with you.  Waves and adrenaline rising and falling and all the while knowing I was safe because one hand was on you.

About eight or ten years ago, you and me and Mom went out to visit a friend of yours who was renting a house in the Hamptons for the summer.  It was one of those houses that had direct beach access, sitting right there on the ocean sand.  We went out back and everyone sat around eating and drinking on the beach.  Except me, I made a beeline for the water.  Be careful!  Mom urged.  Yeah, yeah.  I jumped in and started swimming.  The waves were big, the water was rough and salty.  Because it was a private beach, there were no lifeguards.  No one else was swimming.  I went out farther than I meant to, and when I decided it was time to go back in, I realized that no matter how hard I swam, I wasn't moving any closer to shore.  In fact, I had drifted off quite far from where you all were sitting at the picnic blanket on the beach.  I tried to wave in your direction, but no one noticed.  I kept trying to swim in, but nothing was happening.  I've never been a strong swimmer, more of a doggy paddler, and this was my first time caught in a rip current.  Of course, I didn't know it was a rip current at the time, I just felt confused and frightened.

The harder I fought to get back in, the farther I seemed to get off shore, and the farther I seemed to drift down away from you guys.  Of course, every thing I now know about rip currents says don't fight against them, but I didn't know it at the time.  I just desperately wanted to get back to safety, and it seemed like I was fighting an imaginary foe, running up a down escalator.  By the time I reached full-fledged panic (another absolute "no" when dealing with a rip current), I saw you.  There you were, walking down towards me on the shore.  And immediately, I calmed.  You were there, it was as if you had grabbed my hand, or I had side-stepped toward you and crouched ever so slightly behind you in the face of a lion.  The panic subsided, I managed to ride out the current and eventually made it back into shore, at least half a mile down the beach from where I had started.  You were there the whole time, watching me, waiting for me.  I had been too far out to yell to, and so we hadn't spoken, but just knowing you were there, knowing someone was watching me, that was all I needed.

I love you, Dad, thank you for protecting me all of these years, because even if it was a move so subtle you didn't even know it was happening, you've always been the one I run to when the lions come.

a

A Major Life Event

One day in the hospital, the nurse came in and asked you how you were doing.

"Well," you said, " you know, every time I have to go to the restroom I have to take off these wires connected to my ankles (the ones to keep you from getting blood clots), and then I have to put on these socks (the ones with the treads on the bottom so you don't slip on the linoleum tiled floors), and then I've got to stand up, and negotiate all these wires (the ones hooked up to your IV), and unplug some from the wall, and roll the IV in there with me, and then when I come back I've got to reverse the whole process to get back into bed.  Going to the bathroom has become a major life event."

The nurse just sort of stared at you. I don't think this was quite the answer she was expecting.  But this was so precisely you.  It's just so exactly how you would describe something.

love you.

amy, MFD

That pause after a movie

We were a movie-going family. We mostly still are, although not together as much. 

Friday or Saturday nights were ripe movie time, especially Friday. Shake off the week, pick up a pizza, and catch a movie. 

You and mom, to this day, buy treats at the movies. Chocolate-covered almonds, goobers, nonpareils, popcorn (you not mom). I love how the first thing you did when you got into the theater was get onto the snack line. Very important. 

But after the movie, with everyone grabbing their stuff and racing out the door, you just stayed still. Mom would get impatient, but you liked to take a moment and take it all in, think about it. The pauses were definitely longer with better films. 

I thought about this tonight when Idriss got up from his seat at the movies, and it annoyed me for no reason. Sit down! I whispered. I'm not ready to go yet. I guess I got this pause enjoyment from you. 

Love you Dad. 

M

Cul-de-sac

When coming to my house in Sea Cliff from Port Jefferson, the standard GPS directions take you off the main road a few blocks before my street, and lead you through a lovely sort of roundabout / cul-de-sac with a few small roads lined with tall trees and lots of gracious old homes and a few traffic circles connecting the lot, in Glen Cove.

The first time you came to my house, you couldn't stop talking about this hidden little magical section of Glen Cove. You told me you'd never been there before, despite being from the neighborhood, and you'd never even noticed the street. You couldn't get over it, with such grand houses, and wondered if it was part of an estate previously with the pillars at the entrance.

I just wanted to tell you that every single work day, I leave the main road to walk or drive through this beautiful section of my neighborhood, and I always think of how much you loved it at first sight. I love it, too, and am grateful for the level of grace and beauty it can introduce into my long and sometimes grueling days.

Love,
M

MFD / LFD

Most favorite daughter. Least favorite daughter.

Amy and I have "argued" over the coveted MFD for many years, and you used to love to get involved in this sibling rivalry.

One time, we were on the phone and Amy called. You told her you'd call her back, and then you got back on the line with me and proudly proclaimed: You won the call waiting face-off. That must mean you're the MFD.

But  many other times I was the LFD. I wish I could think of an example...I am sure Amy can oblige.

When we found all the cards and letters and papers from us in your office, some of the cards I gave you were signed "Love Megan (the MFD). We obviously thought it was hilarious. I mean, I am 37, and still arguing over this with my sister. Ridiculous.

Megan x

Gabby!

You used to call my friend Sarah "Gabby" because her middle name was Gabrielle.  Remember that? Gabby!  You would exclaim cheerfully.  You did this for twenty years or so, starting when we were in elementary school.  Sarah loved it, loved getting attention from you.  Everyone did.

Somehow it gets harder every day, Dad.  

On Discretion

To say you were discreet is a bit of an understatement. The world was on a need to know basis, as far as you were concerned -- regarding everything.

"Dad, how much money do you make?" we would ask as little kids. "A small percentage of a million dollars" was the inevitable answer.

A few times, nearing adulthood, I tried to approach this topic more seriously. I explained that I had no idea how much money it took to live in the actual world (unfortunately, this seems to still be the case), and would really appreciate some information to go off of, for example just a range of what it took to live like we'd lived, send three kids to college without debt, etc. i.e. how much money do you make? The answer remained the same, a small percentage of a million dollars. You never adjusted for inflation, and a million dollars seemed a lot less impressive a number in the early 2000's than it had in the early 80's.

On the third or fourth day you were in the hospital, the doctor came in to report absolutely no news, and at the end of his content less briefing, you said thank you. You were so polite throughout your time in the hospital, so gracious.  I interjected -- could you at least tell us what his white blood cell count is today? Up until that point, the white blood cell count was really the only indication of trouble, and I wanted to know if it had gone up or down. I just wanted to know anything at all, really, already wildly sick of hearing "we don't know what's going on."

The doctor said he didn't know offhand but that he could check. That'd be great, I said. Then you interjected -- that won't be necessary.

"But I'd like to know," I said. "You don't have to know if you don't want to hear."  I thought maybe it was stressing you out to think about it.

To me: "You don't need to know." Then, to the doctor: "She's not authorized to know."

The doctor laughed heartily, assuming this was a joke. He probably wasn't used to bedridden patients denying authorization of non-sensitive information to their closest relatives, the ones camped out in the hospital with them.

I rolled my eyes. Dad.

The doctor waited for you to say you were joking, but of course he would have been waiting a long time. He looked at us both hesitantly, then to me: "I'm actually not able to give you the information if he tells me not to, soooo...." Still waiting for you to laugh and say you were joking.

But I knew you weren't, and it wasn't worth fighting over. It's not as if I were prepared to do anything with the knowledge of your white blood cell count. It's fine, I mumbled, and stared straight ahead. I couldn't believe you were being so controlling and treating me like a child in these circumstances. But then, of course I could believe it, and I knew your reluctance to cede control to anyone wasn't about me personally. I let it go.  Add white blood cell count to the list of need to know items, along with salary and a host of other information.

I like to think of myself as discreet, and I am, largely. I don't gossip much, I keep people's secrets, and there's tons of things that I know about that I never let on that I know about. On the other hand, I'm not as much of a need to know person as you were, and have a compulsion to tell the truth even when I could just as easily evade saying anything at all.

On The Good Wife the other day there was a conversation that reminded me so much of you and me. Alicia's campaign advisor was giving her guidance on how to answer a tough question they both knew would come up in an interview she was prepping for. She kept insisting she had to tell the truth. He kept saying, you're not going to lie, but you're certainly not going to say the whole truth. You're a lawyer, he said, listen to what's actually be asked and answer that question. You can easily say "no" and not be lying if you think of it that way, they are asking you if it happened to your knowledge. Since you don't have definitive knowledge of it you say no. But it did happen! Alicia argues. Not to your knowledge, he says.  She squirms in her seat.

Maybe it was all your years of practicing law that made you act like this in a lot of ways too. You did not reveal more than you had to, ever.  To a degree, I think this is about power.  He who holds the information holds the reigns.  But it was more than that, it was your training and it was also just who you were.  Tony and Jim seem to be like that too.  In the weeks after your death when they were helping sort out all the initial finance stuff, I kept asking "so, should I call so and so company and tell them my Dad passed away?"  Every time, Tony said no.  And he would leave it at that.  I was like Alicia, squirming in my seat, itching to tell the absolute whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if no one was asking me.  FInally I said to Tony, I don't understand, why wouldn't I make these calls and tell them this happened?  And he said, well why would you make them?  You don't have to volunteer that information right now.  More squirming.

Sitting with my accountant a few days ago, we kept having conversations that reminded me of this, of the Alicia moments.  And, as my boss reminded me the other day when I told a freelancer more than he needed to know, "there is a difference between honesty and transparency."  Mmmm, I said, not really.  But, I know there was to you.  You were the king of discretion, through and through.

love a

Easter

Happy Easter, Dad.  We missed you today.  Megan hosted, and Aunt Terry, Scott, Jennifer and Joe, and Uncle Harvey all came in addition to me and Mom and Marc.  We laughed a lot, as everyone always does when Jennifer is around, and no one said it, but I know we were all thinking of you.  Your absence was a massive presence in Megan's tiny house.

Finding a moment alone, in the bathroom washing my hands, I stopped and tried to picture you there today.  I could see you, hear your voice, see your royal blue sweater and your slacks -- you always looked so nice -- and we'd be standing in the kitchen, just the two of us, for a minute, and you'd sort of pull me aside and fix me with a look and ask me a question or two.  Nothing serious, you'd just take a minute away from the festivities to find out what was going on with me, how things were.  You'd talk in a low voice, as if we were conferring important secrets, in these moments, these exchanges of whatever it was you'd ask about -- work, my apartment, the cats.  You made it feel important, our secret conference.

Aunt Terry told a story today that in the end made me laugh out loud, but I didn't hear the entire middle part. Sometimes she pauses so long in between sentences you can have whole dialogues with yourself in your own head before she picks up again, startling you back into awareness.  You were the same way.  You could drag out a story, a sentence, sometimes even a word, like no other.  I loved that about you, and thank god Aunt Terry is still around to lull me into a daydream or two in between words sometimes.

Uncle Harvey decided after all these years that he needed to move into assisted living, which he seems sad about.  This winter took his remaining spirit, and he is 91 afterall.  But he refers to the other residents as inmates and refuses to expound on what it's like there.  He misses you, I can see it in his eyes, that far off look.  Listening to the two of you banter was a hallmark of every Easter and Thanksgiving of mine for the last thirty years.  I used to love hearing the two of you go back and forth on the same old argument year after year, as if you were reading off of a script, both of you grinning ear to ear, basking in each other's company.

Walking to my car this morning, the sunny chill in the air outside hit me as the Easter air of so many years.  Going to Aunt Ruth and Uncle Harvey's house out in Massapequa, Megan and I in our fancy dresses and tights and patten leather shoes.  Walking over to the duck pond in the slight briskness of early spring, running and screaming from the geese.

You know, I hate to admit it, but there were many years during my 20's when I found it frustrating that I lived so close to you and Mom.  Mom expected me home for every single holiday, every birthday, mother's day, father's day, it all added up, and I missed a lot of weekends.  It seemed like a burdensome demand on my time, for a while, especially when I was working non-stop.  And so I tried to argue at some point that Easter wasn't a real holiday, I tried to boycott having to celebrate it, I tried lots of different angles to get out of it - sometimes purposely booking trips that kept me out of town over Easter and then pretending I hadn't realized the date until after it was too late.  What a fool I was.

I know now how lucky I was, Dad, to have all that time with you.  All those holidays, all those birthdays.  To think of a single one of those days as a burdensome demand on my time seems like the most shortsighted and stupid thing I've ever done.  But so it goes.

Happy Easter.  I really can't even begin to express how much I missed you today, Dad.  So much.  You'll be happy to know that in true Dempsey fashion we spent a good portion of the day talking about our various pets, showing pictures of our pets, showing each other pictures and videos of bunnies, and bickering about who could borrow various books and in what order.

love,
a

Oysters

Hi Dad,

I'm sorry I've been so quiet lately. The truth is, Idriss and I went on vacation, to France and Morocco. We got to see his whole family, including our nephews and niece, who are getting so big, and are just lovely people.

We also escaped, just the two of us, to the South of France for a few nights. We stayed in Avignon, which was just gorgeous. So elegant and chic, so French, but with kind and friendly people, and so low key. It was the first time we've had a trip together in a long time.

In Avignon, there is a large food market called Les Halles. In that market, there is an oyster place. Here is something I didn't know before Dad, and maybe you didn't either: the French eat oysters in the morning. How do I know this? Well, for starters, Les Halles closes at 1pm. And, when we went for breakfast, there were lots of people eating oysters. And drinking wine, I might add.

I am not sure if it's been documented on here Dad, but you were an oyster man. Frankly, you were a seafood man. Clams, mussels, oysters, bouillabaisse, roasted whole fish, swordfish steaks, flounder filets...you name it, you loved it.

In fact, one of the happiest memories I have of you is from my wedding (first one - ahem). We had a raw bar. And after the ceremony and pictures and lots of socializing, you made up a gigantic plate of tidbits from the raw bar outside, carried it into the restaurant, sat at the bar, ordered a martini, and savored your favorite things all together at that moment. I have a picture of you looking happy as a clam (couldn't resist).

So, Dad, maybe you should have been born French. Then you would have had more oysters your whole life. But I hope you had enough.

I miss you Dad. Love you so much.
M

p.s. I took this little video of church bells ringing in Avignon. So graceful sounding. I know you would have liked them.

The words

Every night, when Amy and I were little, you tucked us into bed. I guess Mom had had it with us by that point of the night.

And we had this lengthy tucking-into-bed ritual. You had to make sure the covers were just so, and I had to be surrounded by all my favorite stuffed animals.

Then came the words.

What were the words? I don't remember! It's killing me. It was a lengthy recitation of love and maybe stories and assurances that mom would come and tuck us in later and so on. Amy, do you remember more details?

And then when we said, practically daily: Hey! Mom never came and tucked us in! She would assure us that she had, but that we were asleep and didn't remember.

I'm going to think hard about the words. I want to remember them.

xx

Missing You.

Tonight is one of those nights, Dad, I just can't stop the crying.  It doesn't seem real.  I can't believe that I'll never see you again.  Not as in "I can't believe it" like a saying, but as in I actually can't believe it.  I don't know how to wrap my head around it.  I just want you to come back.  Okay?  Just please come back.  I don't know how else to say it, I don't know who I can appeal to, but this can't keep being the state of things.  You need to come back, Dad, and you just need to be here.

You died again tonight.  You've died so many times over the past three months.  Because it all happened so quickly the first time around, because there was no time to prepare, to understand, to accept, because it produced a state of utter shock and my body did what bodies do in situations when they decide that the pain is too much to bear, it covered it up and pretended it didn't happen.  It took your death, and it put a great big piece of wood in front of it - a flat like they use to build fake walls on movie sets.  And I guess the idea was that it would slowly move this flat out of the way, take down the fake wall between what I see and reality, and one day there would be no wall at all.

But, it doesn't really seem like it's gone that way.  More like, the wall got moved into place and then sometimes it gets moved out of place suddenly, and I see what's on the other side, and it's horrific and shocking and I can't bear it and then the wall goes back.  For the first few weeks after your death, these little moments of removed wall were so horrible, they felt like murder scenes in a movie being played back in slow motion with the sound turned off.  People screaming and screaming, but with no sound coming out.  I would wake up in the middle of the night with panic attacks, hyperventilating.  Or I'd have to run out of the office or whatever public place I was in to lock myself into a bathroom stall and shake with sobs.

As time has gone on, it's gotten less violent.  I guess the wall is being moved inch by inch, like it's supposed to be.  But, still, you die all the time.  You die when I'm in my exercise class, in a plank pose, my face inches away from the carpet.  You've died so many times with my gaze lost in the strands of grey wool in that room.  You die on the subway, walking down a sidewalk in my neighborhood, sitting in my living room, in restaurants, in bars.  How many times are you going to die?  I don't know how many more times I can take.  Oh, Dad, I'm sorry to be so down.  I know it's not your fault.  I have been locked in my apartment for days with migraines and I just miss you, and I'm sick of my snot and my pain and my tears and I just wish you would come back.  How is it so easy to picture you, your smile, hear your voice, the full sentences, your intonation, you are here, but you are not, and I'm afraid I'm just going to keep losing you.

I never knew anything could be this horrible, I never knew a pain like this existed.  The day that you died, when we got back to the house I went upstairs and went to sleep for at least four hours.  That may seem weird, but I just went into a cocoon.  When I woke up and came downstairs, Mom and Sashi were sitting at the kitchen table.  Someone had sent a platter of cold cuts and cheeses and breads.  Starving, I made myself a sandwich and sat down.  Mom and Sashi kept chatting, I don't remember what about.  Then Sashi said to Mom, "you are a classy woman.  You are very impressive. In India, the widow would be sobbing uncontrollably and throwing herself on the body, the grave, and it's such a spectacle.  You are a classy lady."  Mom said she'd spent the morning crying by herself, but still, I know what Sashi meant.  She would never have such an unbridled display of grief in public.  All I can think of tonight is that I feel like I understand the feelings of those widows who want to throw themselves on the grave or the body heaving with sobs.  I can't stop calling out to you, Dad, as if you can hear me, as if you might respond.  I miss you, which seems like a grossly inadequate way of expressing how much you mean to me.

love a

Construction & Destruction

They took away my sidewalk today.

You know that old parking lot across the street from my apartment building, the one with the rusty old gate and padlock?  Well, they've finally broken ground on the new construction happening there - the former junkyard is scheduled to be transformed into five fancy townhouses with all glass sunrooms floating on wooden roofdecks.  Downtown Brooklyn and the last outskirts of Boerum Hill are blowing up, all the sudden all of the parking lots are building sites, old buildings have come down -- demolished almost overnight, leaving gaping holes in the horizon which will soon be filled with scaffolding and cranes when the building sites go up around them.

It's impossible to walk down the street around here without having to cross the street when met halfway down a block with a sudden "sidewalk closed" notification preceding big plastic orange barriers.  It feels as if the neighborhood is building up around me, and it always makes me think of that Chet Baker song...  they're writing songs of love, but not for me.  These new developments are not for me.  I am not long for this world, this Brooklyn of the ever skyrocketing prices, this Boerum Hill of the million dollar one bedroom condos.  My building will be sold, no doubt, at some point, and either leveled or gutted.  It's being built up around me, but it is not for me.

Everywhere you turn, there is a building rising.  I've been watching the slow development across the street with great trepidation.  First, months ago, they cleaned out the lot and closed it up.  Uh oh.  This did not bode well.  There were rumors of an Ace Hotel, and I pictured staring across the way from the window of my kitchen / living room combo into the boutique rooms styled to feel like old boarding house rooms, watching trendy advertising folk and photographers and models coming and going, smoking their cigarettes in front of the revolving doors out front.

Next there was a single lift one day holding three executive types standing maybe thirty feet in the air looking out through binoculars.  Maybe they were scoping out the view?  They were essentially level with my window, and I glared at them, tried to make it clear that they were not welcome.  I'm sure it was very intimidating.

A month or two ago, they broke ground.  I never thought I'd have cause to actually use that expression, but it is the term for what happened.  They broke the ground.  They are going to build on it, and I guess they need to dig the foundation.  Since I've been stuck at home with unending migraines for weeks on end, this cycle of building seems even more torturous than usual.  The second a jackhammer stops at one site, it is picked up a block away at a different site.  It's amazing how far sound actually does carry when you don't want it to.  So I lie here, head buried under blankets and pillows, trying to block out all the light and the sound, praying for an ounce of silence, a minute of peace, of relief from pain and misery.  And the quiet, when it comes, is like a gift.  But, it does not last.

Owen died in March, 2013, two years ago this month.  I had spent the week preceding his death working from home, taking care of him after his surgery.  He was dying, though I didn't get it at the time because I'd never seen someone progress from life to death, and I sat here day after day feeling the life sucked out of both of us.  March is the most miserable month, a cruel month.

When I came back to my apartment the morning Owen died, I stood looking out my window.  Across the street caddy corner to me, right across from the lot that will now be five fancy townhouses, is a very large old townhouse.  I'd never seen anyone come in or out of it since I'd lived here, always wondered if it had an occupant.  On the day that Owen died, I watched as a team loaded up a dumpster with all the contents from inside the house.  Its occupant -- it had had one afterall -- must have died.  And he or she must have been old.  And he or she had no family there to clean out the house, just a team of guys wearing plastic gloves and dumping things into a large dumpster.  I watched this happen and couldn't help but relate it to Owen's death.  For three days, they cleaned out this old house.  It's still empty, surely it will be gutted soon and tricked out with its own floating glass room on a roofdeck too.  The property alone is probably worth millions.

So far, the construction across the street hasn't been as bad as I imagined it would be, but I know from experience of the other buildings that it will get there.  There will be months on end of undying sound, pounding, steel hitting steel.  And today, they committed the unthinkable.  They took away my sidewalk with those big plastic orange barriers.  I watched the guy do it, and I tried not to think poorly of him as I slowly walked by and scoped out the situation.  He seemed like he probably had a family he was taking care of, and this was his job, and he was not stealing my sidewalk on purpose.  But still.  It seemed like an affront.  It seemed like a personal attack.  I won't see that sidewalk again for at least a year, maybe two.  And they're writing songs of love, but they're not for me.

And what does this have to do with you, Dad?  I don't know, except that it seems related to your death somehow.  When they took the sidewalk away today, I felt something akin to actual grief.  I thought, please stop taking things, stop taking my home.  Because the more the buildings rise around me, the more I feel like this won't last forever, this home I've tried to build, and I'm all worn out on losing this year.  Or maybe I'm just drawing a whole bunch of meaningless parallels and it only feels like it has something to do with you because everything feels like it has something to do with you, because I miss you in every ounce of sidewalk and every minute of waiting on line in a grocery store, and all the breaths I take and all of the thoughts I think.

a

Death & Taxes

Finally I'm sitting down to start the tedious process of putting together my 1099's and deduction spreadsheet to take to my accountant to do my 2014 taxes.  I've been putting this off for months.  This is the first time I'll be doing my taxes without sending the return to you to review before submitting it, and that makes me feel a bit at sea.  It's sort of unfathomable for me to submit a tax return without having your eyes on it first.  Even though you fired yourself as my accountant three or four years ago, you'd still give me advice and talk me through the process both before and after I saw my own accountant.  For the first ten years of my "adult" life you simply filed my return for me.

Going through my old bank statements just now, I kept trying to skip December, 2014.  You know what happened in December, 2014.  Nothing good.  Nothing I want to relive.  It turns out you can't scroll from November to January, or January to November without passing December each and every time.  And so, of course, I'm thinking of you.

There has to be a better way to do this deduction spreadsheet, one that doesn't take 6 or 7 hours of excruciatingly dull spreadsheet man power, but I don't know what that way is, aside from being much better organized all throughout the year, which seems like a hopeless cause for me.  So starting the process every year is a matter of reviewing all of my documents from last year, going through all my various spreadsheets and PDF's, and thinking, ohh, right, I have to do that, and oh, yes, I'll have to do that again, and uhhhh, do I really have to go through that whole thing again?  And stupidly I just thought, huh, this really does just seem to happen every year.  Every damn year.

And then of course you know what popped into my head.  The only sure things in life are death and taxes.  I've always hated that inane saying.  But, you know what?  Today, at least, it feels pretty true.

I miss you endlessly, not just during tax season.

love a