September 2003 Issue - Essay # 1
The
Things I Don't Remember
By William
Joseph
It's
Valentine's Day, 1985. I
bring your mother flowers from you, chocolate from me.
Or maybe the other way around.
She brings me you. An
hour earlier, or later, I forget which, I'm sitting in the diner with my
parents and your mother's father. I'm
thinking that I'll remember everything about this day, but of course I
don't. I don't
remember much of the conversation, although I'm sure it revolved around
you. I'll
tell you some of the other things I don't remember about you. I don't
remember holding you in the hospital, but the pictures we have show that
I did. I don't remember what
I did while I wasn't at your mother's side, or if I slept at all that
next night or two without her by my side.
Was the room all set up and waiting for you, or were there last
minute things I had to do? We
had moved into the house only three months before, but I don't remember
when your room was finished. I
don't remember when you learned to talk, or what your first words were.
The time you cried, "Daddy yelled at me" when I scolded
you for peeling the kitchen wallpaper, I don't remember what your little
voice sounded like. Was that
before or after we went to When
we sat down for waffles and ice cream that first year on the boardwalk
in I
don't remember when I realized you were actually reading the store
signs, and not just knowing what store we were at.
You were very young to be reading anything.
I don't remember when you started writing. You were very young
for that, too. I don't
remember much about your first book, the one about taking care of a
baby, except that when the baby gets old enough, you should sleep it in
a crib. I
don't remember how we invented the game you called "Shark,"
where you and your brothers would jump on me in the water that was the
carpet, then run to the safety of the land that was your beds.
I don't remember when we stopped playing "Shark," I don't even
remember that we did stop. Your
little lisp disappeared one day, with a little outside help, but I don't
remember when. I don't
remember what the lisp sounded like, except when I hear it while
watching videos. I don't
remember teaching you anything, not even when I coached your soccer
team. I never was much of an
athlete, and I think by second grade you knew more than I did about the
sport. You didn't turn out
to care much for sports, but I don't remember why.
I don't remember teaching you as your Cub Scout Den Leader, but,
then, I must have taught you something?
I don't remember. I
don't even remember teaching you to drive, and that was just last year. I
don't remember the first time you were embarrassed to be seen with me,
only that you were. I don't
remember when you stopped being embarrassed, either.
Your middle school years are a blur to me, but sometime during
those years, you decided you could talk to me about music you liked.
Fortunately for me, some of the music I liked was okay with you,
so we could talk about music. Your
high school years, not over yet for another few weeks, you'd think at
least I'd remember those, if not all the years that came before.
But those are a blur too, in many ways.
I don't remember the day you grew taller than me, or smarter.
I
don't remember how the brand new baby I held that Valentine's day became
a toddler, the toddler a little boy, the little boy a man.
What
I do remember is a much shorter list: I remember loving every minute of
you. I
also remember one thing in particular about that conversation at the
diner. I remember my father
saying to your mother's father, "We must have done something right,
because they sure are a couple of terrific kids."
That would be me and your mother, the terrific kids. If my father was anything like I am, he was stating his case more for himself than for the rest of us at the table. In fact, he was understating it. My father did more than just something right, he did many things right. He's a good father, a wonderful father. Yet, for all my years growing up, and for many of the years that followed, I seemed to remember most the things he did wrong. Before you and your brothers were born, I decided I wouldn't do any of those things, I was going to do everything right. After
eighteen years of being a father, it's easier to remember the things I
did wrong. And after forty
four years of being a son, I'd say it's much easier to be a son than a
father. Now,
I choose to remember the things my own father did right, for the
very selfish reason that I want you to remember the things I did right.
And if there's one thing I want you to remember more than all the
rest, it's exactly the one thing I want to remember about my father.
That is, his family was the most important thing to him. So
hold onto the things I did wrong for now, for however long you need to,
but in the end, be charitable with your memories.
Remember that I loved you, that I was always there for you.
Remember the times I played with you, or read to you, or talked
to you. Remember how special
family vacations were to me, and how
I always new you could be anything you wanted to be.
Remember that I wanted you to go away to college, knowing how
much I would miss you. Remember
that I wanted to be a good father, even though at times I didn't know
how. And, if possible,
remember that I actually was a good father. After
all, I must have done something right, because you sure are a terrific
kid.
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Author's Biography William
Joseph lives in He's an average, middle-aged man doing average, middle-aged things, and remains unknown to all but his family and friends. In his fantasy life, though, William is a well-known writer and changer-of-the-world E-mail William at WilliamJoseph117@aol.com
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Essay
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