Dearest Daddio,
A big Happy Father's Day to you! I wish I was telling you these things in the comfort of 206 N. Waterman Ave, over coffee, french toast and turkey bacon, but alas. I live here and here is not there.
I also wish I was writing these things in a card that I had mailed to you several days ago so that it could be there physically and would tell you that I was thinking of you before the actual day that I was meant to go out of my way to tell you how much I love you, but I thought that might be so shocking (as in outrageously uncharacteristic) that it would be a hazard to your health.
But today I am sitting on my couch at home, thermometer at my right hand, remote control by my left and a blanket over my knees, reflecting on a very special father-daughter memory I have recently had cause to remember.
The year is somewhere between 1983 and 1985 and we are living in a small apartment in Skokie. We have glasses that explode in the cabinets, mouse traps under the beds and David has twice locked himself in his room, climbed a book case and showered baby powder down on the floor as Mom frantically tries to get in.
In the specific memory I've been reflecting on, I'm awake in the middle of the night and I need help. I feel terrible and hot and there's gunk fusing my eyelashes tightly together as I wander out of bed and in the general direction of help (your room.) The funny thing is, when I think of being sick as a child, I think Mom. I can still feel her tucking my hair behind my ears while waiting for the thermometer to finish, I think of her force-feeding me jello and other mushy foods and I think of going to her side of the bed in those pre-vomitous-panic-moments (lucky Mom!)
But on this night, you were the lucky winner.
I went to your side of the bed and you took me to the bathroom and got me a cool wash cloth. You dabbed the crusty yuck off of my eyes, wiped my face and helped me calm down. Then you (lovingly, always lovingly) held me down and did your best to get the darned drops I so badly needed into my bucking and rolling eyeballs before sending me back to sleep.
I don't mean to imply that you didn't care for me tenderly when I was a child. I have lots of memories of you carying me home after a bad bike wreck, of you kissing my (not)feverish head and pronouncing it "cool as a cucumber" and of you braiding my hair nightly in your special side-ways braid that no one else could do.
I just really vividly remember you taking care of me on that one disgusting pink-eye night and thought I'd say thanks now, in case I didn't at the time. I know there's some analogy here about wandering blindly and in need into your father's arms in the dark of night, but in my sub-par condition today, all I can think of is how wonderful it is to have a Dad like you.
Thanks for teaching me to hit a ball with a bat, for showing me how to change my oil, for not booting me out of the car when I nearly side-swiped all those parked cars at 16 and for building me a really cool swing set when we lived on Christiana Street. Thanks for the hot pink huffy two-wheeler and for teaching me to ride it and thanks for cheering me on in track and field, even though I was horrible.
I have a fever today. And pink eye. In both eyes. I wish I was there to wish you a happy father's day, but more than that, I wish you were here, with your cool wash cloth and your perfect Daddy ways.
Love,
Sarah
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