Dinners with Dad..

How odd that I knew my mother so well and yet knew so little about my dad. Or, maybe that is not so odd. He was never one to talk about his feelings and our time together was mostly spent while he was in his role as Mr Fix-it. Toilet broke? Dad was here. Sink leak? Dad was here. Lawnmower misbehaving? He was Johny-on-the-Spot. Since my mother's death, he has become a human being. And, an interesting guy. Last night we rode together into town to have dinner with my son and his lovely girlfriend. We talked.

My mother left behind a lot of things that interested her. She had a lot of stuff, and given that she was home all of the time, the stuff was everywhere. There is a collection of funny faced nuns sitting on the mantle of the fireplace. There are these decorative houses that are generally found under Christmas trees - she liked them so much that they sit on the shelf above the couch. There are reading corners everywhere with small piles of books, along with a kindle or two. And there is a bird - bright yellow canary - along with a psychotic dog. My dad says the dog is on probation. Dolly is the one we had to hunt down the morning of the day my mother died.

Last night's discussion, in part, included what to do with this dog. She has been lying in my dad's arms at night, as he sits in the chair that was primarily occupied by my mother. You can see that she does it under duress. Given her own choices, Dolly would stay in hiding these days - under a chair, under the couch, under a bed. He's not giving her a choice. He promised my mom that he would take care of her. He wonders if it is possible to take care of her by finding her a home where she is happier and has the company of a young child or another dog. He would like a dog that is happy to see him when he comes home; a dog that wags its tail and follows him around a bit. Dolly is not it. And you know, that's ok. The dog is not my mother. She is the dog.. and I have a feeling there is a little boy who would make her (and himself) very happy.

But, we talk. He talks about things, about ideas, about politics and life. My dad has a lot to say about things. And although I have no idea what my dad is feeling right now, he shares with me some little things - the way she left things out, the relationship she had with animals - hers and those in the wild -, his own feelings about the yard and the bird feeders and the fish in the ponds. I listen to him share ideas with my son, ask questions, and participate in the exchange of ideas. I like the way he chose to sit next to me instead of across from me at the table last night. I like seeing him with the room and space to simply be who he is, without having to be what my mother needed too. These past years have taken a toll on him, on all of us. I hope, I trust, that as my mother looks down from the heavens, that she is smiling. I hope, I trust, that she is happy to see him relieved and at peace. I trust, I hope, that he is both of those things and comfortable with himself. I'd like to keep him around a while.