6ixteen

It feels like yesterday. I remember the feeling of my blue heather sheets, the sharpness of the birch bed frame that grazed my arm and the cold, white depths of the walls I stared into after I hung up the phone and fell back asleep…knowing I would never wake up a boy ever again. Sixteen years ago, my Dad took his last breath.

I remember the sound of my Mom’s voice and the sinking feeling in my stomach that came as quickly as my eyes opened to answer the early morning call.

There was a part of me that died that morning; the part of me that walked the earth knowing that somewhere out there, my Dad was there. There were countless other Dads to walk the earth, but I felt secure in knowing that my Dad was there.

I walked taller, knowing I had a Dad out there who loved me. I didn’t ever feel afraid to try, fail or mess things up – because I knew he would be there to fix things for me, or take me to the store to replace another broken tool.

I’d walk confidently through the athletic club knowing that somewhere in there, my Dad was crushing it on a racquetball court…because I could hear the CRACK-BOOM!!! echoing through the halls. I’d carry his ‘old’ rackets and try to hit the walls as hard and accurately as he did.

He’d always tell me about ‘the kid’ a young racquetball whiz who later became one of my best friends, and I always felt proud to be my Dad’s son, because I knew he’d win when he played the ‘little pro’. My Dad never had to beat anybody up to prove himself as a man, but it sure made me smile to see him whip their asses on the racquetball court.

My Dad set a great example for me to follow – sometimes by learning what not to do, which is a painful lesson to both observe and experience. Beyond his examples, my Dad took the time to show me how to do things, as well as let me try my hand at them through firsthand experience.

It meant so much to me when my Dad would take me to the garage and ask me to do little things for him; like holding a tool while he wrestled with a stubborn hex bolt.

As a boy, that made me feel important, needed and grown up. I didn’t see grease on my Dad, I saw war paint – and I’d secretly try to smear grease on my own arms to look more like him.

Last week, I changed a pair of bike pedals and had Atlas hold my tools. We took our shirts off and ‘worked like men’ in the garage. He pounded his chest and exclaimed “man!” and gave me the biggest smile.

His arms and face had black streaks on them from a bike tire he played with, and I looked into his beaming eyes and saw a reflection of both myself as well as my Dad. I saw a beautiful little boy that stood tall, proud and confident to be with his Dad in the garage – and in need of an earned bath.

Today, I have more to be thankful for than I have ever had in my life. I am thankful for my tears as much as I am the harvest they nurture and yield. I’m thankful to have had an incredible, strong, loving and dutiful Dad that set an example for me…

…and for Gojo soap.