Made It. I Guess.

I was seven years old when my mom and dad got a divorce. The day our family finally split off into two separate cars, two separate houses, two separate towns, two pissed-off adults, and two scared kids was unequivocally one of the worst days of my life. I didn't necessarily know it that day, but I knew it every day afterwards. That day, it was kind of like a weird adventure my sister and I were going on, and though Mom and Dad had said all of the standard things parents say to make kids understand what's happening when Mommy and Daddy no longer live together, I still really didn't get it. And hell, my sister was two, so I know she didn't get it. All I knew was that Grandma and Grandpa were there, and Nana and Pop Pop, and there was a lot of stuff going on. Sam and I were getting extra loves, hugs, and kisses, and all of the good things that grandparents give, so we were too busy to notice what was going on until Mom said it was time to go. "No, Daddy isn't coming with us. No, he has to stay here. Of course you will see him again. No, I don't know when, but it will be soon. No, Grandma and Grandpa are staying with Daddy, but Nana and Pop Pop are coming with us. Yes, I have Curious George for you right here in the backseat. And your coloring books, yes. I know you're sad, honey. Don't cry, sweetie. Of course Daddy still loves you. Okay, Nana can ride with Sam and me and you can ride in the big yellow truck with Pop Pop, but you have to promise to be good."

Well, that was it. All Mom had to do was give me the go-ahead to ride in the big yellow truck with Pop Pop, and I was all over it. I grabbed Curious and my "art bag," as I liked to call it, and hopped in. I sat there excitedly, waiting to go. My neighborhood friends that came to say goodbye were going to be so jealous that I got to ride in the big yellow truck! I couldn't wait to see their faces as Pop Pop and I drove off; they would be so jealous! Grandma came up to the truck window. "Amanda Lou, aren't you going to say goodbye to your father?" From my seat perched high in the sky, I happened to see right then, in the passenger side mirror, the reflection of my dad. He was standing alone in the driveway, sobbing and red-faced, watching helplessly. Sam was already bundled into her car seat - she had already gotten her goodbye smooches - and it dawned on me that OH. MY. GOD. I FORGOT ABOUT DADDY. I asked him years later if I upset him that day, so preoccupied as I was with the big yellow truck that I totally forgot him, and of course he said no and that he understood I was just excited to ride in the Ryder truck. Twenty three years later, however, I can still replay that part of the day in my head, and still feel so sick that I didn't pay more attention. I hurt my dad's feelings, and even though he got over it and it was no big deal, it tears my heart out even now to think of it.

I quickly scrambled out of the truck, bawling and wailing like a banshee, and raced up to Dad. He picked me up, swung me around, and hugged me tightly. Father and daughter, sobbing wildly, trying to figure out exactly what the hell was going on. Dad telling me to be strong and all the while falling apart before me. I wanted so badly to hold him up, even though it was his arms that held me aloft. I found myself telling him that it would be okay, trying to comfort him while failing miserably at reconciling things in my own seven year-old mind. Mom walked up to us then. Dad put me down, and he and Mom hugged, both crying. Well, if you're both crying, you still love each other! Why don't we just stop all of this and go inside? Sam and I will be good, I PROMISE! Just stop this, okay? OKAY??? But of course, we all know stuff doesn't happen like that.

On my way back to the big yellow truck, it seemed like big, soggy cottonballs had taken the place of my eyes. I was doing that hysterical, hiccupy breathing that kids do when they are just way beyond consolable, and I climbed into the truck. I was so blinded by my tears that I ended up slamming my thumb in the door as I closed it. I howled in pain as Pop Pop quickly opened the door and Mom rushed me into the house, for the last time, to put some cold water on my thumb. I looked around, knowing I would never see my room, my backyard, my house, or my neighborhood again. I was still howling in pain, but it wasn't from my thumb.

That day, I had given Daddy a miniature bottle of English Leather cologne before I set out on the "adventure." I told him it was his going away present, even though, turns out, Mom, Sam, and I were the ones going away. I probably got it at some cheapo store for about two bucks, but I was so proud to give it to him. Announcer, tell him what he's won! Well, Matthew, for your divorce, you get - THAAAAAAT'S RIGHT - a bottle of English Leather! Applause! Applause!

Dad held onto that bottle, and later after I'd moved out and on with adulthood, every single time I came home to visit, Dad would get that bottle out. With just the smallest hint of the cologne gone, he would hold it up and say, "Do you remember when you gave this to me? I still have it." He was like a kid, proud to be revealing a part of his secret treasure. Then he'd well up and I'd tease him for being a big ol' softie while he'd tell me, every time, that it was one of his most favorite possessions. Of course I remember when I gave that to you, Daddy. Of course I do.

* * *

One weekend when I was 19 and getting ready to move away from home, Dad had come into my room early in the morning to wake me up for what I can only assume were the chores he wanted me to do that day around the house. No matter how old Sam and I got, even after I got married, when we were home, Dad had chores for us to do. I woke with a start and asked him, "Where's my red box?" He looked confused and asked me what I was talking about. After I came out of my sleep-induced haze, I explained to him that I'd been having a dream that he was giving me a little red box right around the time he was actually trying to wake me up. He didn't have a box, but he did have a To-Do list. Oh, well, up and at 'em.

That night after I finished packing a few more things, I flopped into bed, exhausted. As I was getting cozy, my hand hit something sharp under my pillow. I lifted up the pillow and found a yellow Post-It with the words, "Boonzie, I found the little red box. XXXOOOO, Daddy." The Post-It was wrapped around a small red box that contained a tiny bottle of Charlie perfume in it. I immediately got teary as it made me think of Dad's English Leather I had given him. I went upstairs to thank him, and of course being the super duper saps that we are in my family, we were both kind of sniveling a little bit. Only in my family do we cry about things like people having dreams about red boxes. He told me that he had spent the entire afternoon running around trying to find something that came in a little red box, and that since I had given him cologne years ago as his "going away present," it was a nice surprise that the little red box he had found happened to have perfume in it - in a tiny bottle, no less.

Just a few days after Dad died this past Christmas, my stepmom Sonjah was going through and sorting out a few odds and ends that Dad had in his jewelry box. My grandma and grandpa both had very plain, matching wooden jewelry boxes, and after they died, Sam got one and Dad had the other, and now I have it. Sonjah gave Sam a few things and me a few things, including the English Leather bottle, tucked neatly away in a drawer of the jewelry box. The jewelry box now sits on my dresser, and the English Leather bottle resides in it again, right next to my unused bottle of Charlie in "the little red box" with the Post-It tucked inside. Alongside them are some other random things of Daddy's, including an old watch, a belt buckle, a ring, and some guitar picks that obviously held some sentimental value for him and for which, sadly, the mystery will forever remain locked.

* * *

First Father's Day without Daddy yesterday.

Made it through.

No idea how.