They, are my fathers. When I was sixteen, one gave me a set of pearls to mark my coming of age. Now at twenty-four, the other has given me a diamond pendant cross on a fine chain, to mark our reunion after a life's absence. One begs me to remember and another asks me to forgive. Each pearl on a strand could be a memory: a Tuesday night Scrabble match, an evening driving lesson at that empty parking lot in the Sunset district, a bedtime story from
Listening to the Great Teacher, an afternoon out on the old pier in Pacifica, a Sunday at the Hall, a Saturday in service, a dinner at Aunt Willy's. The pearls go on, eternally, like the memories I will always have of my father, Johnny Jefferson.
I've mentioned this cross before. It is my first diamond jewelry. It is the loved relic of a faith I never knew how to practice and of the family I am still learning how to know. The father whose name I carry, gave this piece to me. Its diamonds shine hard like the yearning to understand that never dissipated. Timeless, they say, I imagine one day, after my ashes have been spread, it will adorn the neck of a niece or daughter whose beliefs are different than mine. Will she know what it meant to me and what it represents? Will she know that in quiet moments of solitude I pried open the box my father gave me to peer upon its untarnished gold? Will she better be able to where it?
I remember them both during this odd time in my life, when the one that helped make me who I am through thousands of small cherished moments faces another year of cancer, and when the other can't understand why I turned away from him after receiving this cross and the family I've always wanted to know. These are sometimes the jewels of a woman's life, and in a gesture of trust and good will, I've shared them with you here. And still so early in my life, I can only wonder what jewels lie ahead.
They, are my fathers. When I was sixteen, one gave me a set of pearls to mark my coming of age. Now at twenty-four, the other has given me a diamond pendant cross on a fine chain, to mark our reunion after a life's absence. One begs me to remember and another asks me to forgive. Each pearl on a strand could be a memory: a Tuesday night Scrabble match, an evening driving lesson at that empty parking lot in the Sunset district, a bedtime story from Listening to the Great Teacher, an afternoon out on the old pier in Pacifica, a Sunday at the Hall, a Saturday in service, a dinner at Aunt Willy's. The pearls go on, eternally, like the memories I will always have of my father, Johnny Jefferson.
I remember them both during this odd time in my life, when the one that helped make me who I am through thousands of small cherished moments faces another year of cancer, and when the other can't understand why I turned away from him after receiving this cross and the family I've always wanted to know. These are sometimes the jewels of a woman's life, and in a gesture of trust and good will, I've shared them with you here. And still so early in my life, I can only wonder what jewels lie ahead.
What a beautiful gift you've shared. A treasure. Thank you. Your words resonated with me and touched my heart deeply. They made me reflect on my cherished memories with my father - the man who raised me from my youth until now, the days of my womanhood. I think back to days past when I was able to sit with him in his office and talk about stocks and trading, about life choices, and about homemade caramel popcorn. I recall going to Kolomoki mounds, Lake Seminole, and Miracle Strip with him; we had a blast. All these memories shared with a man who I call Captain. My dad. My father.
ReplyDeleteYour words also gave me pause and made me consider my birth father, Phillip. Surely, he was a man who gave all that he could give to his three children. Although he had no direct communication with us for years at a time, I now believe that he gave the best of himself as he was able. A veteran with PTSD and other physical and emotional conditions, he likely gave the healthiest part of himself to us when he could. I now know that he was haunted by his past, hurting from old wounds that he did not want to face. He was doing all that he could to survive from day to day on his own. To add a wife and children to that, maybe it was more than he could handle. The substances of choice that he used, perhaps, numbed him so much that it left him disconnected. Maybe he loved us enough to connect only when he could. All of this I say because I love him and I forgive him. I don't blame him for being out of our lives for all those years. Instead, I am sorry that he did not understand that love forgives and love accepts and love heals all wounds.
Phillip is gone now, but I cherish those rare moments that I was granted with him. They are pearls to me.
*** I am so sorry about your father's illness. My prayers are with him. May wholeness and healing be his. And it is so. ***
Grace and Love 2U,
Kim
Cousin, thank you for your warmth and your words of insight. Our experiences are so similar. What you say is so important about love. When your love can heal, accept and forgive, it becomes compassion. I try to remember that today. I'm still very angry about some things, so compassion every day is a goal. But it takes time sometimes, even when we think we've forgiven, even when we want to move on. I had to learn that last year.
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