Happy Memories

I’m not sure what I expected from this weekend. Perhaps finding some kind of meaning for my dad’s suffering. Sadly, I’m no wiser to understanding why a man, a good man, has to endure so much pain, suffering and indignity. I want to believe that God has a plan and that all of this has purpose. I want to believe; yet I struggle.

I do know that the pictures of my dad from this weekend are not the way I want to remember him. He’s not a 90-pound man that lies silently on the floor that needs to be walked to the bathroom, that needs his children to spoon-feed him, and that pushes away food after a few bites. My dad is loud. My dad runs to the door to greet me with hugs and kisses. He insists that I eat more than a bowl full of food. He scolds me for my forever dieting. He cleans off several plates of rice in the same time it takes me to eat a bowl. He loves foods. He enjoys every single bite. He is fat with life. He’s a chef. Food is his passion. My dad can out party me on my best night. He’s the first to get inebriated and the last to leave the dance floor. My dad loves banter. He loves to pick play fights with me. He loves to laugh out loud when I am frustrated. My dad loves people. He can’t get enough the company of others (with good food and wine of course). My dad is devious with a sweet smile. My dad loves everything about living.

It’s the silence that is hard to bear. I’ve never sat in silence with him. He has always been noisy beyond words. That’s the way I want to remember him. Noisy. Exuberant. Passionate. Stubborn. Infuriating. Playful. Silly. Loving. Loyal. My loudest forever cheerleader.