Dear Dad, anything else you want to talk about?

When I was in college my father started throwing into conversations, “Anything else you want to talk about?” “Something else on your mind you want to discuss?” This opening made me feel heard and valued and I loved that he did that.

I started doing this myself with real conversations a few years ago … to create a softness for another subject, another wrinkle in the conversation.

My father’s time of asking that question has passed. He stopped talking the day he went in for a brain biopsy on August 28th. Now we get infrequent whispers and hand gestures. But as a childhood friend of Dad wrote today, “One’s immortality is one’s remembrance by others.”

So here we go, remembrances of this extraordinary man. (conspiracy vs fuckup I have already unpacked).

One of the most telling stories (at least in how it relates to me) is this one. I was home from college and my Mother and I were fighting (as Dad told me on one of our many walks to get out of the stifling house, she and I were going through adolescence at the same time). I was furious about something that happened. Dad looked at me, “Let’s take a walk.”

We walked down to the road and took a left towards the Capital. My favorite walk was to walk along East Capitol Street towards the Capitol and pass the Shakespeare Library on the left and then the Library of Congress and stop at the fountain with the mer-people. I don’t remember if we did that full walk that day, or if we just walked around the block. I have a memory of it being dark and trees overhead, which means we were probably just walking around the block (counter-clockwise, always, who knows why).

He let me rant for a bit about how unreasonable or crazy or whatever my issue was with Mom. Then we walked some more and he starts talking to me.

“Corinna, you are now an adult. This means that if you want to decide not to be with this family anymore because you think your Mom is too nuts - you can do that. However, I ask that you not abandon us because of what is going on with your Mother.”

He then paused. “I would miss you.”

I was shocked by this declaration. First of all, it had not occurred to me that abandoning the family was a choice. Second of all, my father was not a hugely emotive person. His response to, “I love you,” was usually, “Ditto.” So for him to claim so boldly that he would miss me was tantamount to him standing on top of Mount Everest and setting off fireworks of how much he cared for me.

Clearly, I did not abandon my parents - they are living on my land in a small cottage 64 feet from my house.

The trouble with being 43 years old and thinking about one’s father is that there is too much. The smell of his pajamas. The sound of his cough. The memory of being tickled, tickled tickled!!! His right foot hitting the floorboards when he taught me how to drive stick shift at BIF. Seeing him on the beach with a towel on each leg and a full shirt on and a hat. The taste of his dinners - fried onions/potatoes/hot dogs/melted cheese with ketchup on them - known as “smooshes” or “a Daddy smoosh.”

Him walking me to the basement freezer in 7th grade to give me a sip of vodka because I was upset that I hadn’t been invited to a party. Calling him the first time I had a fender bender and being so afraid that he would be mad and the first words out of his mouth being “Are you alright?”

Having him visit me in the UK while I was at school and being shocked that my introverted father went out to dinner with the other parents after my performance. His leather sandals that defied physics to stay on his feet.

Now I will sit with him and hold his hand - my heart shouting at him how much I love him and am grateful for his life. How grateful I am for my life that happened because of him.

I will look into his green eyes and squeeze his hand and ask him, “Dad, is there anything else you want to talk about?” Maybe I will get a thumbs up - and another story.