One Moment in Time

I was feeling sad for myself on my ride home from work today. It all started during the 3^rd session of writing that I co-teach with my friend, Katie. We are teaching the kids how to write personal narratives. Specifically about a moment in time that you wish you could pause, to hang onto for a bit longer, to savor. For Katie it was the dance she shared with her dad at her wedding three months ago. She told the students she never wants to forget it, because at that moment she felt so emotionally connected to her dad that the world seemed to fade away, and it was just father and daughter, cheek to cheek, floating across the dance floor to My Little Girl by Tim McGraw.

It was during this lesson that I was remembering my own father. Three years ago tomorrow was the absolute worst day of my life to date. October 4, 2009, was when my dad left this earth, succumbing to mesothelioma. His illness was hard and fast—and although I know he had been ill for a long time, he never let on to it. The man never complained. Ever.

On the car ride home from work, I was planning in my head what I would write about him on my blog. My mind was flooded with thoughts of Daddy. And then my heart began to ache, and the tears fell, each one containing a silent memory of him.

I was wishing I could freeze-frame some times that I had with my dad. I was thinking about the first wedding I had, doing the father-daughter dance to Daddy’s Little Girl. And riding with him to the church in the red-and-black Rolls Royce from the 1930s. I kept waiting for some deep, meaningful words of wisdom from him, but they never came. He just held my hand and was quiet for the entire one-mile ride to the church. But it was that strong vice-like grip that signaled to me that no matter what, he would always be there for me.

And then I thought about my wedding to Andy, and my absolute all-time three favorite pictures I have from that fantastic day. It’s a three-in-a-series. In the first one, Andy and Dad are doing the congratulatory man-hug. You know, where they’re shaking hands but have pulled it into a hug, and they are grinning like they just shared the best joke. In the second one Dad still has his arm on Andy’s shoulder, but he’s whispering something conspiratorially to him.  In the third one Andy has a Cheshire cat grin, and Daddy (you can only see his arm) is walking away. They both have their arm extended--it almost looks like Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. Dad and he haven’t let go, arms still outstretched, fingers touching.

I was savoring those moments.

I drove into the driveway and followed the curve up to the house and when I stopped, something startled me. I quickly turned my head to the right, and there beside my little zinnia garden near the driveway and the shed, were a momma deer and her fawn. Almost immediately the mother gracefully ran off into the woods. But the baby just stayed put and stared at me.

I was still in the car, so I quickly took out my phone and took a picture of it. I exhaled—I knew I had gasped, but I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. I didn’t want to move a muscle. I wanted that fawn to stay.

Ever so slowly I got out of the car. Carefully I tiptoed to the edge of the grass. The baby flicked his little white tail at me, but didn’t leave. He let me take more pictures of him.

After about 2 minutes of staring he slowly walked behind the shed. I thought I would try to go around to the other side to get a close-up of him. He stopped and turned back to look at me again.

“Hello, friend” I murmured. “Do you want to stay for a little while?”

He picked up his hoof and held it in the air, and then slowly put it down. It was almost as if he waved to me. He let me take a couple more pictures.

“I’m so glad you visited me today. I needed to see you.”

He flicked his tail two more times, looked over his shoulder again, and then scampered off to his mother in the woods.

So what the heck does this have to do with anything? My dad had a way with animals. Every dog loved him, every cat would climb on his lap, he could hypnotize a lobster, and wild birds would land on his out-stretched hand and feed. My father was an avid hunter, and every year he would go dear hunting. He had a great respect for the deer. He appreciated its silent beauty and grace. My grandmother was a believer in reincarnation, and if she was right, and my father were to come back as a land animal, it would be as a deer. I’m sure of it.

Maybe it was me, being nostalgic and wishful. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe I just miss my dad. Whatever it was, it comforted me to think it was my Dad who visited me today. And trust me, today I savored that moment.