About two years ago, I was sitting at work when my phone rang - your name popped up on the caller ID. As Megan's already mentioned, you weren't a big phone person, so no matter how often you called we always assumed it was due to a crisis -- especially if you called in the middle of a work day.
I picked up, "Hi Dad. What's going on?" I learned my straight to the point phone talk from you. My whole life, whenever I called you while you were at work, the conversation would go something like this: "Hi Dad, how are you?" met with: "Busy. You have one minute."
Early on, I learned that work time was for work, not for chatting on the phone. I'd have whatever it was I wanted to talk about prepped so I could get it out quickly enough to fit into my allotted minute. As an adult, when I started working in offices myself, I was shocked to realize that people conducted personal calls while at work. Emailing, web surfing, IMing, texting, sure, all that was fine. But chatting on the phone on an unnecessary personal call while in the office? This was (and still is) absolutely horrifying to me.
But, back to that random Tuesday (or was it a Wednesday?) when you called me at work. I asked what was going on, paying half attention while continuing to read through a contract. You said:
Oh, nothing. I just called to say I miss you.
My eyes fell on the white desk, and I paused for a long time. It caught me off guard. This was not the way we spoke to each other as a family, not the language we used. Ours was more of an implied love. Never for a single second did I doubt your love for me, but we didn't walk around saying we missed each other in the middle of a Tuesday. I hadn't been traveling, I'd seen you within the month, so what was this missing about? I didn't know what to do with it.
"What?" I replied, as if I hadn't heard you.
And this I remember, remember so well. You started laughing. "What?" I said again.
And you said "I just said I miss you, and you replied by saying 'what'." I think you saw right through my little "sorry, couldn't hear you" act.
"Oh," I said. "Sorry, I'm just reviewing a contract" (even then, trying to prove I was an adult, a professional, like you).
On one of the earlier days in the hospital you grabbed my hand as I was saying goodbye for the night. And I squeezed, and you squeezed back, and we held on and lingered for a minute or two and I said I love you and you said you loved me too. I never broke down crying at your bedside, though I wanted to a million times. Well, that's not true, I did once. On the last day of your life I told you about what a good dad you were and how much I loved you, and through barely muffled sobs I begged you to get better. But really the expression of our love was more subtle.
The first time Marc ever told me he loved me was the night you died. (Although in your office we found letters you had saved from 25 years ago - really nice and poetic letters Marc had written to all of us as a teenager. I said the letters were proof that Marc actually did love us all. Marc said it didn't count because he had obviously been high when he'd written them). Losing you has brought the rest of us a little closer, I think. Our family is smaller now, and it feels like we have to hang on tighter.
Anyway, about that call, what can I say about it now, Dad? Is it too late to say I miss you too? Because I do.
I miss you.
love
a
I picked up, "Hi Dad. What's going on?" I learned my straight to the point phone talk from you. My whole life, whenever I called you while you were at work, the conversation would go something like this: "Hi Dad, how are you?" met with: "Busy. You have one minute."
Early on, I learned that work time was for work, not for chatting on the phone. I'd have whatever it was I wanted to talk about prepped so I could get it out quickly enough to fit into my allotted minute. As an adult, when I started working in offices myself, I was shocked to realize that people conducted personal calls while at work. Emailing, web surfing, IMing, texting, sure, all that was fine. But chatting on the phone on an unnecessary personal call while in the office? This was (and still is) absolutely horrifying to me.
But, back to that random Tuesday (or was it a Wednesday?) when you called me at work. I asked what was going on, paying half attention while continuing to read through a contract. You said:
Oh, nothing. I just called to say I miss you.
My eyes fell on the white desk, and I paused for a long time. It caught me off guard. This was not the way we spoke to each other as a family, not the language we used. Ours was more of an implied love. Never for a single second did I doubt your love for me, but we didn't walk around saying we missed each other in the middle of a Tuesday. I hadn't been traveling, I'd seen you within the month, so what was this missing about? I didn't know what to do with it.
"What?" I replied, as if I hadn't heard you.
And this I remember, remember so well. You started laughing. "What?" I said again.
And you said "I just said I miss you, and you replied by saying 'what'." I think you saw right through my little "sorry, couldn't hear you" act.
"Oh," I said. "Sorry, I'm just reviewing a contract" (even then, trying to prove I was an adult, a professional, like you).
On one of the earlier days in the hospital you grabbed my hand as I was saying goodbye for the night. And I squeezed, and you squeezed back, and we held on and lingered for a minute or two and I said I love you and you said you loved me too. I never broke down crying at your bedside, though I wanted to a million times. Well, that's not true, I did once. On the last day of your life I told you about what a good dad you were and how much I loved you, and through barely muffled sobs I begged you to get better. But really the expression of our love was more subtle.
The first time Marc ever told me he loved me was the night you died. (Although in your office we found letters you had saved from 25 years ago - really nice and poetic letters Marc had written to all of us as a teenager. I said the letters were proof that Marc actually did love us all. Marc said it didn't count because he had obviously been high when he'd written them). Losing you has brought the rest of us a little closer, I think. Our family is smaller now, and it feels like we have to hang on tighter.
Anyway, about that call, what can I say about it now, Dad? Is it too late to say I miss you too? Because I do.
I miss you.
love
a
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