Message in a Bottle

I sit alone in a laundromat. I thought I’d put away the hurt and shed my last tear, yet here I am still thinking about my dad. For eighty years, Daddy had led a colorful and interesting life doing exactly what he wanted to do. He couldn’t have asked for more. I keep telling myself I need to let go of the sadness I feel and think about something else. Why didn’t I just pack Daddy’s clothes into a box when we closed his apartment — why am I in this place washing his clothes? Every turning and tossing motion of the dryer only reminds me more of the way he lived his life. Suddenly, it occurs to me that maybe Daddy’s the reason I’m in this laundromat. Maybe I’ve come here to finally say goodbye. My dad never stayed anywhere for very long, especially home. He was in and out of my life from the time I was eight. Called himself a construction stiff, said he had to be on the move, had the world to see. During most of those years, he took eighteen-month construction jobs overseas, and he saw the world. He was an alcoholic, and most of my growing-up years were wrapped in wishing for the sober times. When he came home in between jobs, I felt he was making an appearance in our lives — he felt he was on holiday, and he drank. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and lived in fear that one of my friends would see or hear him, so I made excuses why they couldn’t come to our house. Looking back, I remember how often during those visits I wished he would leave. On the surface, when he was sober, and to those who knew him slightly, he was this colorful, humorous, unforgettable character called Senator; a mystery writer, adventurer, soldier of fortune, world traveler. His most prized possession was an aluminum suitcase covered with travel and baggage labels. It was very important for him to show people how far and how frequently he’d traveled. My dad had redefined himself long ago. Where he’d been and what he’d done, was who he was — and that’s what proved he existed. His passport was his business card, and he wore it like a badge. At airport terminals he needed spectators, and lived for that moment. When my dad walked through the gate with other arriving passengers, he was on stage. Among his costumes were turbans, oriental robes, safari helmets, cummerbunds, and sun glasses. Sometimes we had difficulty recognizing him. Other times he was not on the flight at all, having been bumped from the plane in Hawaii for being drunk. Showman that he was, he gloried when waiting passengers would take photos of him, especially with flashes, for this brought him added attention. He knew they would think they had stumbled upon the arrival of a world-famous dignitary, a celebrity, or undercover somebody. He would bow and mumble something in a phony accent. He knew in those few moments, he had gifted them with a mystery to take home and talk about, and he was the leading character. He loved it. But what the public saw, and what we, his family, lived with, were very different. All through those years, there had been empty places in my childhood I wanted Daddy to fill. I wanted him to give back all the times he wasn’t there for me when I needed him, and needed him sober. He was my father and I wanted him to be like other dads. But Daddy had stolen time from me, and now all he had left me to remember him by were scattered moments. I knew I couldn’t change the past, and before tonight, thought I had tied all those unhappy times into bunches and put them away. I must stop my mind from remembering, and stop this gnawing ache in my heart. The clothes are dry, and I begin to fold them on the table in front of me. I begin to realize that Daddy had gone in his own direction — he was who he was, nothing more, but nothing less. Unable to give time, all my dad knew how to give were moments. Tears fill my eyes, and I remember that in many of the moments he gave me there had been wonder. It was my nineteenth birthday. I was in class at City College when I was summoned to the administration office. A very large wooden crate addressed to me, had been sent from Saudi Arabia. I opened it to an audience, and unwrapped a wine-colored leather camel saddle. “Happy Birthday, Babe,” the card read, “Love ya, Dad.” My brother, sister and I were young. We watched Daddy carefully fill three balloons with gas from the living room gas jet. He wrote our names and the date on bits of paper, and placed one inside each balloon, tied string around the knots in the balloons, and took us outside. He told us on the count of three to let go of the strings. We did, and the balloons flew upward for as far as we could see. Daddy said they would stay there forever and become part of the sky. We stood there motionless, looking up until the balloons disappeared from sight. We were a little older and riding the Red Car, the trolley that went to the beach. Daddy had a bag on his lap which he kept closed, said it was a surprise. We arrived, walked to the edge of the water, and sat on the sand. He opened the bag and showed us three empty soda pop bottles. He wrote our names and addresses on bits of paper, then added: “Please let me know if you receive this.” He placed the notes inside the bottles, and told us that bottles could travel like this forever, and the messages could reach places we could never imagine. We watched the three bottles separate as they floated further and further out into the ocean. Daddy said that each would follow its own direction, go its own way, just like people. I fold the clothes and put them away, along with all the sadness I brought with me. I leave the laundromat and head for home. For the first time since my dad’s death, my heart feels free when I think of him. If I could, I’d send Daddy a message in a bottle and tell him I filled all the empty places tonight — filled them with the moments of wonder he’d given me. I can almost hear him answer back. “Thanks, Babe. I love ya. Can’t stay long . . . only have a moment.” Saying a final goodbye to a parent or anyone you love sometimes takes more than words, it takes forgiveness and understanding. I’ve learned that nothing keeps sadness in our hearts more than words left unsaid. I think of the good times, and now am filled with the realization that it’s love and the precious gathered moments that we remember in this life.

~ Flavia Weedn A story to ponder... compiled by: Vincent