ABBY’S UNWITTING SURPRISE FATHER’S DAY GIFT

When I was in 3rd grade, my father and I went on a “YMCA Indian Guides” camping trip with the rest of my “Tribe.” Yes, I am well aware that in today’s politically correct world a pasty white fat guy like me should not be using those terms, but I loved that organization, and I loved those trips. I was the youngest of four, and those trips meant rare one on one time for my dad and me. This particular weekend was over Father’s Day, and my mom and I had conspired to sneak a present for my dad in my bag: a brand new pair of socks! HA! BRAND NEW SOCKS! Yeah, in the early 70’s it was either a tie or socks for father’s day, not an Apple Watch or custom gas grill. In fact, I was the only boy that weekend that had brought a gift for his dad along on the trip. I was so very proud. When my son David was born, I was so very excited to share special times like that with my boy. Unfortunately, six years ago my 10-year-old son David died, and Father’s Day would never be the same.

I have no memory of the first Father’s Day after David died. I’m sure my wife Leslie and daughter Abby did something for me, and I’m sure we all engaged in some activity together, but like most of the first 18 months after David died, it’s all sort of a foggy jumble.  I’ve often tried to evaluate just how I survived that first year and a half after David died, but the truth is, I have no idea. I got up every morning, did what needed to be done, and kept moving forward. Eventually life started to get back to a sense of normal over the years, but big days, the holidays and such, are still hard to navigate.

The real difficulty in maneuvering around these special days is that there is no way of knowing what is lurking in the shadows, waiting to break through the carefully reconstructed “Normal” we all strive to get back to after tragedy. This week my daughter, who is now 13, received a new laptop she will need for high school next year. I won’t go into all the “woulda, shuolda, couldas” swirling around the fact she is going into high school, a place David never got to go, because those moments happen with every benchmark she reaches that he did not get to achieve. What reached out and kicked me this week was something completely different.

Abby, being a child of smartphones and digital cameras, had thousands of photos taken over the years stored on the old family laptop that she had been using. She went through her pictures, getting rid of ones she didn’t want, and then handed me the old laptop to save 4000+ pictures she deemed savable onto some DVDs. As I transferred the photos, David was suddenly there on the screen. Abby had begun her love of snapping photos before David had died, and she had hundreds of photos and even videos of David on the computer.  He was her best friend and partner in crime, and they had spent many hours taking stupid kid photos of each other. These weren’t the many photos that we have been looking at since his death. Like everyone, after David died we had gone through all our pictures and had our favorites. Our memory of David these past 6 years had in part become based on the known pictures of my boy. Our memories were intrinsically tied to the classic images that we had selected over the years as our “memories” of David. Those pictures we see all the time no longer deliver the same surprise emotional punch they did immediately after his death. But these pictures leaping off the computer screen were new. They were candid shots of the kind that only two kids playing together take. Wacky faces, silly costumes, and crazy scenarios beamed at me from the computer screen. In short, they were full of David, the crazy kid he was, his twisted innocent personality, and the love of playfulness he shared with his sister. They took my breath away. They created a tidal wave of memories and feelings, many of which had been “tamed” in the years since his death. But these pictures brought back raw emotion. There was that glint of joy in his eyes. I heard his laugh, his voice, and so much of the exposed pain of losing him came rushing back. These were not things I had forgotten, but they were elements of who he was that were not in the “regular” photos we have hung around the house. He was in the room with me. Those of you who haven’t lost a child may think I’m Looney Tunes, but I could suddenly smell him again. I could feel his hugs. I have spent so many hours shedding tears so as to control the pain, but these photos undid all that healthy healing and laid my soul bare.

I indulged that raw grief again, and allowed myself to remember David anew. Abby had unknowingly given me an incredible, albeit initially painful, gift for this Father’s Day week: she had given a bit of David back to me. Now I sit here, and again am reminded that love never dies. I will never get another Father’s Day with David, but Abby has given me the next best thing. I wish all the father’s out there peace and comfort this weekend, and hope you can find some gratitude, not for what was lost, but for what we all still have, because even though our children are not here to hold and hug, they are  still our children, and they are still here inside our hearts. I am still David’s father.  We still share incredible love. Happy Father’s Day. Peace, Light and Laughter to you all.