My Dad is Back

And he's in a box.

The doorbell rang, I heard my name, and when my husband came into the room, I was gobsmacked by big feelings. The air was suddenly full of sound I couldn’t hear. My mind whirled or went still; I couldn’t tell.

Dave suggested I sit down, and he sat next to me. It took a long time for me just to be able to touch the box. Sobs wracked my body. Dr. Daddy, who used to have an informed answer for every ache and bump and pain, died two years ago at a ripe old age. Then he went right off to medical school again, this time as a teaching cadaver, to give back a gift he’d received in his own youth.

I’ve missed him. He’s finally back. And I got the honor of receiving the box.

One of those '“Dad Jokes” I can still hear in my head.

My stepmom, who's eloquent in practical matters, remarked on the $110 price stamped on the tag. “On my aunt's cremains that arrived in January 2000,” she texted, “the stamp said $9.55. It was also via certified priority mail!” (That’s a 1056% increase in 24 years, in case anyone’s counting.)

My brother’s first thought was, “I need to get that sticker for my lunch box!”

In the town where Dad grew up, five railroads intersected. The air was always full of ashes, smoke, and the sound of whistling, thundering steam engines. I hope some day to take him back there—by way of all the trains of course—so he can rest with his folks. Some day.

Until then, I think I like having him around. He’s being unusually quiet.

I imagine he’s still a little suprised. He thought he’d live forever.

My mom, when she taught her parenting workshops, would tell the story of a child who could see his breath on a frosty morning. The kid described it as “Self-Steam.” I remember telling Dad, trying to start a serious conversation. We ended up laughing about self-esteem engines. Then he farted. There’s your self-steam!

I have vivid memories of the way he’d cuddle me, tease me, toss me in the air. One time I was sitting in a bar in a dress, something I don’t do very often, and a man with a drink said to me, “you look like a woman whose dad loved her when she was young.” I didn’t know if he really saw that in me, or if that was just a line. But I am. Mom even told me once that, when I showed up 11 months after my brother, she was so exhausted she handed me to Dad and said, “this one’s yours.”

So this box on my knees. It’s hard to wrap my brain around the fact it’s the mortal remains of my first great love.

This chapter is about how bonding is a basic building block of self-esteem.

Chapter 4: Building Self-Esteem

You can even listen to it on Spotify!

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