Emotional? Maybe.

I was talking to my dad today, which is peculiar because he passed away a month ago tomorrow, and I was explaining to him how I had to get two new tires on my car because one sliced open when I drove over a crow bar looking object, and the other one had a nail in it. It went something like this: "So Dad (pause). You would be super unhappy to hear that I not only destroyed one rear tire, but two (laugh)! And that's not the worst of it (pause)- I had to take it to the dealership to have them fix it. Remember those run flats I was telling you about earlier this year? Yeah, I had to buy two of those things. I know, I know, we practiced changing tires many times but unfortunately there is no spare tire because...well, remember, I explained this earlier?" It wasn't until I got to that second question that I realized perhaps the person sitting next to me in their car, stopped at the red light, might be wondering if I had lost my mind. I briefly looked to my right and sure enough, the middle aged woman in a tan mini van was staring straight at me looking for some sign of a blue tooth. I guess I did look pretty crazy having a conversation with...well, myself.

I often wonder when I'm going to stop doing that. Talking to him. Even during his final days in hospice, when he could barely respond, I would just tell him about the nuances of my day. Sometimes I wondered if he knew what I was saying, but it seemed like he enjoyed hearing my voice anyway. And every once in a while I would get a smile. Sometimes I wonder if he can hear when I talk to him; and if, wherever he is, he smiles once in a while.

It's strange what sort of memories surface during times like this. I think about movies and shows, specifically the TLC "Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls" music video where someone passes away and it's signified by them 'fading out' of the picture. The opposite has kind of been happening to me lately. It was always a...tradition of sorts, for my dad to walk outside and wave goodbye to me as I would pull out of their driveway and drive away. Even after I turned out of their street, he knew I could still see him in my rear-view mirror and he would wave until I was out of sight. When I left that house today after visiting my mom, I stared in that mirror until I could see a vague outline of him waving at me in the distance. It was a strange feeling- equally melancholy and silly. I half-smiled as I kept driving.

I get scared sometimes. I'm afraid I'm going to forget little things he used to do or say. And it seems obvious, write it down right? I've tried and it just feels strange creating a list- some sort of weird two dimensional representation of my dad. Last night Jay and I were making dinner and he was looking for something in the kitchen. "My Fina!", he yelled, "Where is the (insert kitchen object he was looking for here)?" I turned around and almost cried the type of cry that happens when you're happy or sentimental because I had already almost forgotten that my dad used to call me that. It's the Southern way of saying "finer", but because of the drawl, it comes out sounding like fine-a. Anyway, he used to sing "Nothing could be fina that my sweet Carolina" whenever I would tell him something witty or funny, and he would just call me "Fina" sometimes. For now, I'm happy to have those memories surprise me at unexpected times, instead of reviewing a list.



Earlier this week, Tuesday to be exact, I went to Target to pick up a couple things and I happened to walk past their gardening section. Because it's the end of the summer, their packages of seeds are all on clearance. I had to stop. My dad used to have a huge vegetable garden: eggplant, cabbage, carrots, black eyed peas, corn, tomatoes, okra, watermelon...the list goes on. He had a green thumb, to say the least. But the one thing that he couldn't get to grow correctly was strawberries. He tried both the plant form, and the seed form, and every year they would just stay yellow and die. Once we got past the irritation of having them die every year, it became sort of a recurring joke. I searched the seeds until I found a package for strawberries and thought "Oh man! Remember these? How many packages did I help you plant again?" only I did one of those things where I thought I said that in my head, when in actuality I said it aloud. So loud, in fact, an associate in the garden section asked "Was there something I can help you with?" To which I sadly shook my head, put the seeds back, and finished my shopping.

I don't know if I can stop talking to him. At least in the near future anyway. So many things (tools, seeds, car parts, suit jackets), places (Auto Zone, Wells Fargo, Circle K), smells (pumpkin pie, cornbread, motor oil) carry memories of him. And I'm not sure that's a bad thing. The logical part of me says that should make me sad because he's not alive anymore. But the emotional part of me is elated because in a strange way, he is in so much of my daily life. So for now, in a rare Caroline move, I'm going to let my emotions have this one.


"Dad, I miss you. But please don't worry about me. I am finding happiness every day, and I try to remember to tell you about it. I love you."