23

My dad was born on the 23rd of the month. He died on the 23rd of the month. We closed on his house on the 23rd of this month. I am not one to get caught up in the coincidence of such things but this hangs with me. Today was a good day overall. I was happy and hyper and busy. I drove with my sister to close on my dad's house. That is all it was...my dad's house. His house was not the house we were raised in and I thought it held little emotional value. Then it was time to pass it on. My dad's house was being pass on to a young man who was excited and appreciated all the man things about the house. Neutral tones, large garage, simple layout, manicured yard. Man touches that speak to men. He loved it. He was excited. My sister and I arrived in the room we would turn the house over to him and I could not breathe. The tears came fast. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for crying on such a happy day for him. We were turning over the last tangible thing my dad had made. The emotional value was uncontainable. The emotions hit me hard and all at once.
I left the room. Scattered thoughts hit me. I thought about hanging out with my dad in his garage. Hanging out the day Princess Diana died. Talking about her death and installing his garage door. The garage door we were giving this young guy the openers to. Random thoughts. Thoughts about my dad's life and death events that tend to fall on the 23rd of each month. Random thoughts against the lender's voice droning on about the terms of the loan.
The young man brought his father with him. I kept staring at them. His father did not interfere with the process or try and push anything. He sat quietly, proudly by his youngest son, as he purchased his first house. He had a quiet presence that I found suffocating in the room with the random thoughts and droning voices.
I found myself wishing for my dad. Wishing for him in a way that I had not allowed myself to wish for him in a long time. Wishing for him to be present in this. Wishing he could advise me or say he was proud. Wishing he could just sit by me while I went through life. Wishing, for one more day, I could look and see my dad just sitting next to me.
I watched them for most of the time. I asked the father the question I already knew the answer to but needed to voice, "Are you his father?". The son looked down in the way I often see over priveleged people do when they become aware that others are lacking. The dawning that not everyone has what they do. The father shook his head in an almost apologetic but still very proud way. It was a good fatherly response to a fatherless daughter. He answered the hard question with sympathy and truth.
I wanted to tell the son to not take this moment for granted. One day, he would wish for a moment like this in the way I was wishing for it right now. The words lodged in my throat. The words were too big to escape through the porthole my mouth would allow. My heart stopped me as well. This was a happy, proud day for them. Not a day to cloud with my own grief anymore than I already was.
We turned over the last project my dad completed to a very worthy father and son. As we were leaving, the son asked, "There is a rope hanging from the ceiling of the garage. It does not seem to be attached to anything. Do you all know what it is for?". My sister and I both cried immediately. The rope had been in every garage my dad had ever parked a car. At one point, there was a rubber ball that hung from the end of the rope. The ball was a continual visual that showed my dad exactly where to stop the car. My dad was methodical. The ball instructed him where to stop to allow the proper amount of room to move around the entire car with the garage door closed, to be able to open the door without banging it into anything and where to stop each time so the oil and other fluids hit the same pan that he left so as not to stain the garage floor. My sister managed to explain the rope to him. The father looked at us gently and said "We have those in our garage also".
The ball was bitter and sweet to me as I recalled the symbol it represented re:my dad's life. As a child, I would flippantly bat at the ball as I walked through the garage. One time, I knocked it out of the ceiling and my dad was furious. Now it is a thread that represents a father to daughters trying to hold on in small ways and confuses the recipients of my dad's work. Threads that weave in and out of the 23rds of each month with memories and random thoughts and life that continues amidst droning voices.