Remembering Father's Day
From My Journal . . .
May 1, 1969 (13 years old)
Today started with a typical Virginia morning. Dew lay quivering on the petals of the roses that lined our carport. My favorite willow tree was hanging heavily with young, green buds. The air was crisp and clean like water from a spring.
Usually when I left for school, I would savor this innocence around me, but today was different. Today, my Daddy was going away. People tell me its not forever, just a year. Just a year, I answer, just a year. When he left he did not look so different, not really he looked just like he was supposed to, my daddy. Yet, I felt a kind of awe when I saw him standing there in his uniform, like I was seeing God. My sisters and I gathered outside next to the car to say goodbye to him. We all stood silently, waiting for what I cannot say. Maybe for some stranger to come running up, say it was all a big mistake and that my Daddy didn't have to go away. But, nobody did, so we all were forced to make his departure final. My Daddy has blue eyes, clear blue eyes that are filled with life. Today his eyes were sad and rimmed with tears as he told us not to cry. Then he smiled and said goodbye. He has only been gone for a couple of hours, as I write this, but it seems like forever. I'll just keep thinking though, only one year.
April 5, 1970 (14 years old)
My Daddy is dead. The man came today and told us we would never see him again. My Mom just cried, but it wasn't a natural cry, it was like something dying a very painful death. People just started coming in bringing food by the basketfuls. I can't cry yet, my aunt says it's shock. I really don't know. I feel very scared. I cannot seem to understand why God would take my Daddy. I really don't want to write this because it hurts very bad, but I know someday I will want to know, to remember what real pain is. Maybe then I will always understand other people when they cry.
Telegrams started to pour in by the dozens. Some saying he was killed due to engine failure, others saying it was caused by sniper fire. I screamed inside, "Who cares? He's gone, gone, don't you realize it doesn't matter why or how, just that he is gone forever?"
My little sister is only eight years old and she doesn't remember Daddy very well, but she cries just like we do. In a way I'm glad she doesn't understand because then she won't have to remember.
My best friend came and she helps me alot. And even though I could cry she can make me laugh.
I'm trying to remember my Daddy and how he was always so good. It hurts to think I never told him I loved him often enough and now it's too late.
It is very late now and I must get to sleep.
April 5, 1971 (15 years old)
Today it was rainy, very appropriate I felt since it's been a year since Dad died. Sometimes it still hurts, but at least it's not all the time. I can remember the old saying "time heals" I don't think it is true. I don't feel the wound will ever heal, just the memory of the pain will fade away.
Mom is fine now. For awhile she was like a stranger. She would sit for hours and stare out the window. Our house was always very quiet. It was a wonderful day when she laughed for the first time. We have grown very close together as a family and that in a way is something good. Since my Dad's death, I have grown in many ways. It was and is hard to accept the loss, but now at least I'm able to cope. At night I cry sometimes, but I was told that was normal.
I have gained one thing from the pain and that being: In any experience that a person must go through, there are only two ways to come out of the experience -- either bitter and hateful or better and stronger with more understanding of other people's pain.
I feel that I personally have become a stronger person through my father's death in Vietnam. My awareness of reality has sharpened. My responsibilities to those who I love have become more acute. My Dad's love for life has instilled in me a power that will live as long as my memory of him in my life.
It has started raining again, and I wonder how I will feel next year.
June 14, 1996 (40 years old)We went to The Wall this past week and once again I touched my father's name and saw my reflection in the shiny blackness. The last time was nine years ago and I was pregnant with my father's first grandchild. I remember standing there and wishing for just one second of time with him. To share the joy of the new life inside me. The tears came for all the times when they couldn't in the past.
This time when I saw my reflection in The Wall I also saw my Mother (her first visit), my sisters and my two young sons. And this time I didn't cry so hard...because this time I knew that he was there. I could feel him through the love of all of those there with us. A very special group of people who came together to celebrate and honor the lives of their classmates of '53.
As I stood among them I was so proud of them and I was so proud of my father. I was in awe of their strength and their honor and their integrity. I watched that same look of awe on my son's face as my father's classmates and friends saluted The Wall.
I know I can never have my father back, but this past week, God gave me just a second to touch his life through his friends and it left peace behind in that space that has been as big and black as The Wall for twenty-six years.
And I don't wonder anymore how I will feel next year.
I know. . . I finally know.
© 1996 ase
