No More Broken Plates

One day when I was dusting the dining room of our 1879 home, a funny thought hit my heart. “Dad never stepped foot in any place I lived as an adult.” That meant he never ate in my house. I never got to think of a meal to prepare for his arrival. I never got to set the table or prepare a plate for him. Well…I never got the opportunity to invite him to my home. He doesn’t know a thing about me. 

Had he ever come I probably would have made him something Italian, like Cioppino. Clams, mussels, squid, shrimp in a spicy red sauce with parsley, for starters. I’m sure I would have made homemade pasta with the stainless steel pasta maker to squeeze flour and eggs through the rollers. A gift Dad and his second wife gave me in the ’80s. Christmas maybe? Sad but true, the unused pasta machine now collects spider parts and dust in our musty old basement. I can’t bring myself to use it, nor get ride of it. No doubt I would have tried to impress him with homemade bread that rose from yeast after I punched it down a few times and kneaded the hell out of it in hopes to form a crusty piece of something that we could break together and toast to possibility.

I don’t know. Maybe I missed an opportunity. But it never felt that way. How could it. I mean he was an ornery sort of fellow. And that’s putting it kind. But still…when time passes and I reflect on what I’ve overcome, I can’t help but be faced with what I am celebrating. The loss.

I mean who likes tension? Not me. Who likes walking on eggshells? Not me. What a silly thought to pop into my head at this stage of my life. Really I should be saying, screw you thought! Who cares if he had dinner in my home? Not me!

Then it comes.The unasked for teardrop. Oh brother,this is stupid. “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps girl. Seriously? Get it together.” 

But see this is what happens. The passing of time celebrates my victories which then stir a reflection in a pool of the things I feel I lost. I suppose, because, without a loss, there is no victory. It seems my reflection pauses the party with a mournful tear or two or three or more, before I can move on.

God almighty I don’t miss the tense family meals that made it hard to swallow and choke down unwanted food. And God forbid I looked at my dad the wrong way. I wish I knew then how to pray, “God help me know what the formula of today is.” And if one more dinner table was turned upside down because he had a bad day…

Of course I can’t change what never was. He never set foot in my home. He never asked. He was never curious. He never met my husband. He never got to know me. He was never interested. Or so it seemed.

But then I remembered, who likes walking on broken pieces of dinner plates? Not me!

Today I embrace the peace that now comes with my meals. But lately, some days I weep that my dad never seemed to care so I weep at the sadness of my loss and his. And I weep because I never got to prepare him a meal that wasn’t rife with tension.

And he doesn’t even know what my cooking is like. Or that I use garlic.

 

 

Below is an excerpt from my memoir, Wounded Song, Chapter titled Tavern Bench:

Tavern Bench

Alone in the dining room with Dad, I stared. I couldn’t help myself. I mean, after all these years Dad was here in our house. When he arrived a few weeks ago, my husband of sixteen years met him for the first time. Dad had missed out on much of my growing years and became absent during my adulthood. He missed our wedding day, musical jam parties and many dinner opportunities. Really what he missed was everyday life stuff. But here he was now for this long-overdue visit, in our house for the first time. I thought, it’s better late than never so be thankful he’s here. But then I thought, where were you when I needed you? I gazed around the room soaking in this unexpected reunion when a sense of peace washed over me.

From the dining room chair, I looked at the black box Dad came with as he sat on the brown tavern bench my husband had found at a local yard sale. Unlike my childhood days, we sat still and quiet together.

Amused I asked, “What am I going to do with you?”

Curious to have this one-on-one moment with Dad, I pondered the heaviness of his dead body inside the black box and wondered how much he weighed. How heavy could ashes be? It’s funny how something this dead, not a little dead, or kind of dead, but dead dead fills a little six-by-nine inch box and without muttering a word can erupt a lifetime of questions and memories to my surface. Personal stories that had been interrupted, stuffed and left for dead. Stories from long ago, that had surrendered to the end of their season, now gasped for air, hoping to be revived.

I could resuscitate the old stories that were looking to put a stranglehold on me or I could let the box remind me of how far I’ve come and be determined to live my life alive. The box that held my dad brought me to the middle of my crossroad. The choice I make will be mine.

End of excerpt…

Dad never set foot in my home, but at least there are no more broken plates.

When relief and some peace have taken hold after all these years, it’s funny the things I think about when I’ve been separated from my past. How about you? What gets stirred and brings you to an unexpected crossroad?