Dad. Love.

I am sitting at my kitchen island, typing.  Sara Bareilles is sing about love. . .Love, Love, Love, Lo-ove. . .

I look up and see  a small ornament type thing that sits next to my sink.  It simply says, LOVE.  Below it there is a sign that says Faith.  If I move my eyes to the right, I see the #1 statue that I got for winning the stuffed hot pepper contest this year.  To the right of that is a "rooster" that I got from my cousins after my Aunt Carolyn passed away.  To the right of that is a hot plate that was my Grandma Fuzzy's, to the right of that is an antique plate that was my Grandma and Grandpa Schryver's.

Magnetized to the fridge is a picture of me and Jeff, and another picture of my Dad, hand in the air, a smile on his face, waving at me.  (The picture was taken when he pulled into my driveway with his camper, and Mom had already made it into the house, but he had to park the camper and get it ready.  It was when they stayed here for two weeks of my pregnancy with Paige).

Love.

I write on a day that was always joyous for us.  It was the start of the season for us.  The eve before Christmas eve and it was Dad's birthday.

"Bah, why'd you get me anything? I don't need anything."

"Bah, you came home for my birthday and you're going to your sisters?"

"Bah, your mother misses you."

Many mornings, many, many mornings, him and I would sit at the kitchen table at the house and sip coffee.  He'd smoke and stare at the TV, not listening to what was on, but thinking.  Thinking.

Sometimes, in the morning, I stare hypnotized into a cup of coffee, and understand all that he had been thinking.  In some moments of clarity, I think, "Damn, he knew it all!" 

He knew how hard it was to go to work every day.
He knew how hard it was to hold it together.
He knew how much he loved his children.
He knew how much love his children needed.
He knew.
He knew.
He knew.

And on the days when he said, "Bah. . .", he also said "I love you".  And on the days he yelled, he also showed his love for all of us (and our friends too).

I am sitting in a kitchen that he hasn't been in for many years, but he's all over this place.  And man, that hand in the air, the smile on his face, waving at me every day. . .

I wish I saw it every day.  I wish I noticed that picture every day.  But I don't.

Happy Birthday Dad.  I miss you.

Love. Love. Love. Lo-ove. . .