MY FATHER

His apartment must have been quite bare. It was probably only a small room with a kitchenette and a bathroom. I can only imagine what his last few weeks were like. My older half-brother was the one that received the call that our father had passed away in a small town in California. I found out that his last job was as a truck driver. He was single and alone, a solitary man with sad memories and questions about how it ended up so wrong.

All of my father’s belongings ended up as the contents of a shoe box. A lighter, some faded family photos and other mementos of a life traveled hard and long. Franklyn McCoy rolled into Norwalk Connecticut on a Triumph motorcycle when he noticed the petite girl in the denim jeans. Josephine, my mom, fell for the bad boy with the crisp white t-shirt with the Lucky Strike pack rolled up in one sleeve.

I think about him from time to time. I wish I had more than the first nine years of my life after which they divorced and he rode off for another adventure and dream of finding happiness. But that proved too elusive for him. I wish I could talk with him as an adult and understand what happened and who he truly was as a man. As a kid, I remember Hamm radios, his cherished Triumph, a variety of really cool cars and his equally cool friends.

My heart breaks when I hear people talk fondly about their dads and how they fostered their growth. My uncles definitely filled that void in my life and I learned a lot of valuable lessons from them. But, that emptiness will haunt me from the last moment I saw him. I was sitting on the front porch of the apartment we lived in with my brothers and sister. We were enjoying the summer sun and waiting for him to visit.

A Bonneville convertible rolled up to the front. The top was up, which was unlike my dad on this beautiful day. The car idled a deep rumble as he sat in the middle of the road. I looked at my brothers and sister and we wondered why he wasn’t parking. After a minute I got up and walked toward his car. Just as I stepped off the curve, he drove off. I still remember the expression on his face., the tears in his eyes as he turned his head away and drove off.

I sometimes understand his sorrow and how it can be a deep poorly lighted pit from which to attempt to climb out of. Often we need a helping hand to get out. I wonder if he ever had that? Sometimes I want to travel to that town in California and try to find that building and his apartment. Maybe I’m just trying to bring an understanding and closure to the last 51 years. Maybe sharing this story will help.

Love to all the dads out there.