There are things I want you to know about your Grandpa Hilo, things you will not get to experience or learn about on your own. In time I hope I can capture just a glimpse of the man he was to me growing up, in stories maybe.
I wrote this about him for myself, but by the time you're old enough to read this, it might make a little sense to you.
Love,
Mommy
I lie here and I remember him, as if he is already gone. In a way, he is.
Nothing quite prepares you to see your parent - who you think of as a strong, if flawed, individual - reduced to a crumpled heap of vulnerability.
The dad I knew was a solid man. Big arms and stone hard calves from working Big Island cane fields in his youth. He made me hold his hand everywhere we went and kiss him on the cheek when he dropped me off at school. When I was in third grade he walked me across Middle Field to class on the first day. I didn't want to hold his hand and to this day he talks about how heartbreaking this was for him. In summer school before eighth grade I decided I didn't want to kiss him goodbye in the morning. He wouldn't let me go without it and quoted the song that was just on the radio, "because your kiss is on my list." I rolled my eyes.
My dad taught me to be fierce. Until Cayla came along, I was the only girl in an ocean of boy cousins and brothers and I was the baby and I was spoiled. But I was taught the proper ways to throw a football and swing a baseball bat and at my soccer games he would yell, "Stop playing like a girl!" I threw a spiral better than Jason, and beat Ian at chess, and I fired a rifle with stunning accuracy, and my dad showed me that I could do anything the boys could do.
My dad taught me that I'm special. He has never stopped talking about the night in Hilo when, at 3 years old I told him the crescent moon was "trying to come out. Like a button." He thought that was so genius. (I still don't exactly get what the big deal was.) He would buy me a card and maybe a flower or some other small gift every Valentine's Day. He always reminded me that even as a grown up I could never escape being Daddy's little girl.
I have spent the better part of my life expecting this time in a very real way. To varying degrees, Dad has been near the edge of death since I was 15. Many days and nights since then I have spent staring at a ceiling in the dark or at a scuffed linoleum floor under unforgiving lights, and remembered. Remembered the morning drives to school, the trips to Burger King, the Sundays at Sandy Beach. Thought about all the lessons he taught me: take care of yourself first or you can't take care of anyone else, don't carry baggage or you will get stuck, if you're going to do something do everything to be the best at it. I think about these things, I hear his voice so clearly.
I have also spent much of our time being a rotten kid. He and I had our ups and very intense downs, and I went through periods of speaking to him with utter disrespect, contempt even. Ignoring him. Punishing him, essentially, for what at the time felt like grievous wrongs. We had epic arguments, exchanged some charged words on occasion. He loved me - liked me, even! - unwaveringly and vehemently through all of it. I took his love for granted, and only in the past couple of years realized how comforting it was to hear, "But how are YOU, Sweetheart?" My dad taught me forgiveness.
Last week I held his hand, pianist's fingers wrapped around mine. His skin was so soft, paper thin, dark brown. Today I wished I could go back to third grade and walk across Middle Field with him one more time.
Now that the night is upon me, I realize. Nothing prepares you to say goodbye to your Daddy.
