Suddenly, Missing Seymour

When the time came to order a stone for my father's grave, my mother, brother, and I struggled to come up with a word to engrave into the top. Everything he meant to each of us, boiled down to a single word. It was a daunting task.

My father, Seymour, had lots of nicknames: Sim, Sy, or, as I liked to think of it, Sigh. But the cemetery -- where my poor selfless father had recently embarked on an eternity in the company of my mother's relatives -- seemed to demand something more formal, more dignified than a nickname. FATHER. MOTHER. SISTER. BROTHER. HUSBAND. On rows of tombstones, so impersonal and so limiting, futile attempts at capturing the essence of a person.

We settled on DADDY. He was a devoted husband, a devoted uncle and cousin, a devoted friend. When he died at the age of 78, he had been a father for only half of his life. But "daddy" was who he was meant to be -- our provider, our caretaker, our protector. When I was little, I feared losing him more than I feared losing anyone. Years later, when he got sick and I had three children of my own whom I loved more than life itself, I couldn't imagine a world without him. When he died, I felt as if I had been cut off at the knees. 

My mother, the widow, had her brand of grief, and she was the one whose daily life would change dramatically. My brother and I grieved for her as much as we grieved for ourselves, and we, at least, took comfort in each other, the two children, similarly situated, similarly stricken. 

It's been nineteen years, and I am long past the days when I would burst into tears, as my ex-husband put it, every time I caught sight of an older Jewish man. I don't even consciously think of him most of the time, but somehow he remains with me, on ordinary days, and especially on days when I need a boost. I can still hear his strong, soothing voice. Whenever I pass the corner of 49th and 2nd in Manhattan, I can still remember the relief I always felt when I spotted his car, during that rough spot when I was in my early twenties and he would endure more rush hour traffic than he should have after a long day just to pick me up after work. I can still remember how everything always seemed a bit more right when he was there. 

Nineteen years, and it occurred to me today that my brother and I each have our own bank of "daddy" memories, some shared, but many not. This morning, my brother shared a favorite story in honor or Father's Day -- something about a seat from the old Yankee stadium and a few cartons of cigarettes and a special journey for a father and a son. I know the stadium relic well, but I never knew the details of how it ended up in my brother's bedroom. My father, my most adored "daddy," had somehow managed to be as unique a figure in somebody else's life as he had always been in my own. 

I am not a good sharer, and I am a little competitive. I console myself with the hope that my brother knows as little of my car rides home from work with our father as I know of their Yankee Stadium seat adventure. He can cherish his own memories, just as I cherish mine, vague snippets that have embedded themselves in my psyche, my heart, my soul. 

At the beginning, I used to dread what I called "Fatherless Day." Today, I celebrate Daddy, who has never left me. Or any of us who loved him.