The afternoon before my father's memorial service I still hadn't written my speech.
I'd been thinking about it off and on all week, but I'd been busy with other things: lining up the other speakers, writing the programs, coordinating with the mortuary staff re flowers, food, audio / visual, room capacity -- in a lot of ways it felt similar to my conference producing work prior to my dad's diagnosis. And that was comforting. I slid the role on like a glove.
But by the afternoon of the day before the memorial service I knew I needed to find a quiet spot and put pen to paper. I have always loved going up on the roof at my parents' house. I loved how stark the roof was: shingles with a few pipes poking up, a brick chimney, and a TV antenna. The view out is breathtaking, and the tree tops are right there!
So I escaped to the roof. A beer in my cleavage, a pen in my teeth, a pad of paper under my arm as I scaled the ladder.
A few deep breaths, and then the words began to flow... The following is the speech I read the next afternoon to those assembled for my father's memorial.
The memories fade in and out now, like radio stations on a cross country road trip. Static gives way to clarity. Bits of song, a smell, a feeling, a memory of a laugh -- sharp, then fading... All of it out of context, and thus each beautiful in their distinctness.
...
It's 1994.
My parents are side-by-side on the couch across the blue shag carpet. I'm facing them, fired up. I'm upset over the death of our second elderly horse. First Missy, then Chewy. Now we have just Rosie: a beautiful white a copper-colored Arabian-Appaloosa mix. A lone horse. A horse without a herd. An old horse.
I'm 17. I'm awash in sorrow for her loss, imagining what it would be like to be the last one standing. I'm passionately suggesting we put this lonely -- though otherwise healthy -- horse out of her misery.
My mom looks from me to my dad beside her and says, "If I go first, watch out for April! She'll be coming for you with a shotgun!"
...
The memory fades to static...
A new memory comes into focus...
...
It's a couple weeks ago. My dad and I are at his kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs. He's thin, weak, tired. I'm telling him the horse story. I'm nervous it won't go over well.
When I get to the "watch out for April!" part, he nearly chokes on his eggs. Bits fly out of his mouth. His laugh is clear and beautiful.
...
The memory fades...
...
Now it is last week: the day I take him to the hospital. We are in his car. He's in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. Every turn, every bump, he moans. I'm desperate to help him. We are fairly flying down Black Road -- the hospital like gold at the end of the rainbow.
I'm thinking: God! Good thing his eyes are closed! He'd never approve of this speed!
Just then, out of the blue, his eyes still clamped shut, he says with a smirk, "I hope you're timing this."
...
The memory fades...
...
My grief is like these memories: in and out like the tide. My sadness comes in waves. Like a punch in the gut, the memories come unbidden. Everything reminds me of him. Grief washes over me. But the memories comfort me, too. I don't want to forget.
I'm so grateful we learned in these last six months to hug often. To say I Love You every single day. To lean on each other.
But there is one thing I never got the chance to tell him:
Fifteen minutes, Dad.
Fifteen minutes from your house to the hospital.
New. World. Record.
