i had a realization about my father the other day.
my dad is the most hopeless romantic i have ever met. he claims he always has been - since adolescence. (this i knew; this was not the realization). of course i have never had the chance to witness his charisma and charm with the woman of his affections since she passed away when i was 6... but the stories he tells! my mother never had a chance, she was to fall for him come hell or high water. no woman (meek or strong) could withstand the beguiling endearment (or so it seemed by his side of the story) of the young patrick.
i grew up hoping for a man with similar characteristics as my father - his charm, his wit, his passion, and his romantic qualities. most boys/men fell vastly short of the high bar my dreams set for them, all because i was in constant audience to love stories or tears for heart-felt sorrow that my father continuously emanated. you see, my mother has now been deceased for 17 years... a lifetime to many... and yet she is all my father can think about it. she is his yesterday and today. she will be his tomorrow whether he likes it or not because he refuses to move on. growing up i thought "that was love." that was commitment at best! how perfect must my mother have been that my father - a handsome, smart, charismatic man (now in his mid-50s) cannot, will not get over. i grew up thinking his obsession was not unhealthy, but sorrowfully romantic. i grew up thinking their marriage would have withstood the test of time since it currently does...
then came my sudden, unbeknown realization that has slowly formed in my incogitative
thought... my mother was not as perfect as my father has let on. in fact the nancy he lies awake missing nightly is probably nothing like what my mother was once like. my father has had 17 painful years of missing his beloved. 17 years to dwell on memories and thoughts, and "what-ifs." my father has had 17 years to dream up this woman... this siren who steals him from his daily activities to break into tearful memories (some of which are probably long since fabricated, thus untrue). i bet the first few years of his lament was real. he probably dealt with continuous nightmares of the most simple memories. but he also probably started to remember moments incorrectly. his mind has most likely created false memories to help soften the pain of the horrid "what-ifs." how do i know this? his last memory of my mother is of her dying in his arms. he tells the story all the time and how he's glad he was there during her last moments here on earth, even though they were and will forever be the hardest moments he has ever experienced. however, my mother did not die in his arms. she passed away after briefly waking up from a week-long coma to find my aunt kaycia sitting by her bed. my dad was in my little sister's room taking care of her. my mother whispered softly "do you hear them? do you hear the music...? it's so beautiful...." and then slowly passed away unto our Heavenly Father's arms. my father was not with her. he hated himself for that every day for years and years - but instead of succumbing to the looming depression he felt dragged towards, his mind/heart healed itself by creating a new memory. a better one. we cannot and dare not correct this memory, the fight that springs forth from the mere mention of what really happened to my father is far less worth letting him keep his dominating thought.
my father's hopeless romanticism is no longer my hopes and dreams for my beloved, benji. i hope he never has to feel the pain and torment as my father does on a daily basis. i do not want him to love me as much as my father obsessively loves my mother. the idolatry in that is beyond expression - and the insanity behind that must feel like a living death every day to my father.
