Heavenly Father

For as long as I knew him, my father thought his birthday was October 20th, and that's when we celebrated. After he died, we discovered a discrepancy on his birth certificate, which listed his arrival date as the 19th.

One way or another, my dad would have turned ninety-two this week. Even though pancreatic cancer had made him look old in the final months of his life, I still remember him as a youthful looking seventy-six, the strong and vibrant rock in my life. I can still hear his reassuring deep voice, the voice that retained its resonance until the end. I wonder what he would have been like had he made it to ninety-two.

He was the one who always told me I could do anything if I set my mind to it. I always believed it when he said it; I play it back in my head often these days as I face the terrifying thought of reinventing myself for the next chapter of my life. "Don't take the path of least resistance," he would caution. Oh, but the path of least resistance can be so soothing, daddy. My daily dose of comfort food. Where the heck is he when I need a loving kick in the ass?

After I graduated from college (by the skin of my teeth, I might add), I took a year off to work before going to law school. It was a year I try to forget, a year marked by tremendous self-doubt and all encompassing eating disorders and an unbearably tempestuous relationship with my mom. My dad, never a fan of public transportation, would buck ridiculous traffic every evening after work, heading out of his way from his office in Queens into Manhattan to pick me up so I wouldn't have to endure the long subway ride to Brooklyn.

I've erased a lot of that year from my mind, but those car rides with my dad have stayed with me all this time. We talked about everything and about nothing. Mostly, he listened. Without judgment, without scorn, without any semblance of anger, he listened. I know now how powerless he must have felt, my rock, unable to fix whatever was wrong.

He may not have fixed anything, but he carried me through the worst of it. Sitting next to him each evening, I felt as if he was carrying me on his shoulders, protecting me from all the muck. Some days -- every day, really -- I miss those broad shoulders, would do anything for a ride.

Happy birthday daddy -- today, or tomorrow. I still hear your voice, still count on you to steer me home.