On birthdays. And fathers.

My dad would’ve been 71 today had he lived. Seventy-one. He died before I was even out of diapers but I’m told he doted on me, his only daughter. His only child. Growing up, his death was shrouded in secrecy and I knew, somehow, not to ask questions. Instead, I would strain to overhear very adult conversations for any mention of him.  One day, while snooping through my mother’s things I found a photograph of a man I didn’t recognize. Being just seven or eight, I thought this man must be my father. In the few moments I had, I memorized everything about the man in the well-worn Polaroid. I was 13 when I was told it wasn’t him.

If it sounds complicated, it is. I only learned his birthdate as a young adult. I also learned he loved acting and football and many other things a young man from a deeply religious family shouldn’t. He was a black sheep but was my many, many cousins’ favourite uncle.  He was fun and funny; a giant of a man. He wore a leather jacket (that I wish someone had saved for me) with the collar flipped up, as did many men in the sixties, even though it was, without question, wholly unacceptable in his family.

Everything I have of his fits in a small box. Over the years a few of my cousins have given me things that belonged to him (I’m unsure why but nothing had been saved for me).  I was given the silver pocket which had been tucked into his Levis on the night he was killed.  The football he threw around. And a few other trinkets I’m now saving for my kids.

More than forty years have passed since he died. My son has his name – as well as his cheekbones, height and rebellious nature. My daughter has his curly hair, which she hates as much as he did. They ask me about him and I wish more than anything I had more to share. So, each February 20th, I’m not sad remembering him.

I am sad that I don’t remember him at all. Happy birthday, Dad.