I don't think my father knew that my favorite color was periwinkle when I was a child (such useless knowledge, acquired from the stub of a crayon). He did know, however, the changing shade of my eyes; the clouds in my eyes; my culinary tastes; exactly how to always summon a laugh.
I know my mother does not want to speak of him, now. Only in generalities, only in gentleness. But I want to remember his long, loving relationship with our red puppy; his conversations with neighborhood lunatics; the day he cracked eggs on her head; how heavy he was on lemon in tea. I want to remember the birthday party where he shattered the pinata to our delight, his evenings in Telluride sipping coffee, dancing on Dennis' barn floor, our sipping of champagne at stuffy functions. I want to remember that I wanted him, always, as my companion at school and college events.
I am lucky enough to have his photographs, which document who he was. The portraits of self, neighbors, us. Angels wings. Always newly bloomed flowers. Roofs at daybreak.
I feel a need to write it all down, before I forget any of it. Each new memory certainly priceless and precious. If the most recent Christmas where he gave me a guide to Guatemala for our summer trip. Conversations in Spanish on taxis and buses. All of us in fishing gear, waist-deep in Newfoundland. Carousel rides and giant coca colas. Fat tubs of popcorn at our weekly movies. Ice-skating at Rockafeller Center. Creme brulee at Matisse. His beard. How he held chopsticks to attack the small snacks at the Mill. The day he ordered blood sausage only to frighten us. His sedar interruptions. The soft sunspots on his hands. Our pact to stop biting our nails. Our center in the seas. Spilling my heart at the Hungarians.
On the other hand, it would be hard to forget my father for even a moment, as he is so much a part of me. My eyes. My nose. The shade of my hair. My laughing spot. My obsession with photographs. My ability to retreat. My intellect. My love of Spanish. My love of poems. My love of food. The small cynic in me.
