This past Saturday was the first time I’ve ever heard my father weep. Having already been told by my brother that my uncle Matti had died that day, I called my father in South Carolina. His machine answered and I left a message, wondering where he might have gone to having just heard the news. When he called me back I realized he hadn’t gone anywhere. He was bereft, could hardly speak through tears I knew were falling, but that I would never have expected. And I was, unusually, at a loss for words.
My father and I have not been close for many, many years. I never felt like “daddy’s little girl”, so much so that I didn’t even allow that song to played for our dance at my wedding. I have no recollection of what was played and it’ s certainly of no importance this far down the line. He and I have come to a good place in our relationship, beneficiaries of both time and tide and the beginnings of the role reversal that inevitably takes place between parent and child. Continue reading