The Man Who Made Me

He seems so peaceful, sitting there snoozing on his favorite couch. A crossword puzzle book lays folded open in his lap, the pen still poised in his hand from the last clue he was working on. It's amazing how quickly he can fall asleep these days. Honestly, I'm a little jealous. Then again, when one gets into their late 70's, I suppose it's normal to conk out at the drop of a hat. The frost in his beard is a marker of the ever-marching passage of time, faded after the years from its once jet-black hue. I suppose I'm partially responsible for that. Alright, more than partially.

As his chest rises and falls and his mouth droops open, filling the air with the comforting sound of his snores, I'm reminded of days gone by. The feeling of my small cheek resting on that chest, falling asleep in his lap to the vibrations of his soft, deep voice reading stories. The strength of his arms as he held me steady on my bicycle seat. "I won't let go," he would promise... and of course, he always did. It can be argued that letting go is part of being a parent. I never understood that as a child, especially after I would immediately fall over as soon as he let go. Come to think of it, I still can't ride a bicycle. It's not his fault though, because he tried his hardest to teach me how.

I remember those warm, sunny days in Spring. He'd get that gleam in his puppydog-brown eyes, and the next thing I knew he'd be getting the golf clubs out of the garage. We never went to a professional driving range - I honestly don't think we could ever have afforded to - but that was okay. We had a perfectly fine hill to knock a few balls over. I wonder now how many balls we lost over the years. Considering how bad I sucked at driving a ball, it was probably quite a few. Again, that was always okay. I think he was just happy that I wanted to be out there with him, hitting them beside him on that hill.

I remember the day I realized I was left-handed, just like him. He seemed so proud of that fact, even though he probably knew I would be left handed long before I discovered it for myself. My sisters are all right handed, though, so it made me feel special; I was just like him. His mini-me, his "Little Buddy". We even looked alike, with the same deep, dark eyes and black-brown hair. Everywhere we went in public, people would say, "you look just like your Daddy". It always made me feel good to hear that. My Daddy was - to my young mind - the smartest, strongest, and most interesting person in the world.

He could fix almost everything. In fact, he still can. He taught me how to use a screwdriver when I was just a wee sprig of a girl. I want to say it was before first grade, but I'm really not sure. All those memories are kind of a haze. Because of him, I know how to fix Christmas lights if they don't work - a skill that has already proven useful in the past, but that's for a later story, I think - and the many uses of duct tape, Krazy Glue and WD40. Thinking back now, all those "repairs" he taught me how to do are fairly easy and straight forward. As a child, however, to me those fixes always seemed like some kind of sorcery. Even today, although I know very well how to repair certain things myself, I can't help but turn to him now and again on instinct and say, "Daddy, can you fix this?" I think it makes him feel good when I do, to know that I still need him even now.

As I got older, things - inevitably - began to change. I think from the age of ten is when I began to notice it. I had started wearing training bras around that time, a fact my mother was misty-eyed with pride over. Dad didn't seem to really notice or care about that kind of stuff, which I didn't really understand at the time. By the end of middle school, his "Little Buddy" was practically grown up; a budding young woman with problems that Daddy couldn't really understand or fix anymore. His days of fixing broken Barbie cars and being a living hair styling mannequin were over for good. In hindsight, I think it made him a little sad. That was, I think, the first sign we were starting to drift apart.

Today, we still don't really talk much or hang out like we did long, long ago when I was small. Although our relationship has changed, it's still a good one, I think. He's not much of a talker anyway, nor am I. We're content to just sit in comfortable silence together, watching a movie on the couch. Every now and again the silence is broken if I ask a question (if it's an old, black-and-white classic) or if he does (if it's a newer movie with a complicated plot he doesn't quite understand). Complicating matters further is the fact that these days, he's incredibly hard of hearing. I've gotten used to repeating myself if he doesn't hear me the first time, and have grown a fondness for watching movies with the subtitles on. You don't realize how much of the movie you can miss without them on, honestly... particularly if you have the bad habit - like me - of talking during movies.

To tell the truth, I worry that one day he may go completely deaf... and, so might I. Hearing problems don't run in my family, they gallop. My paternal grandfather had bad tinnitus; so does dad, and my sisters. And me, too. It's a scary thought, that some day he might not be able to listen to his favorite songs, or hear the sound of my mother's voice. I wonder sometimes if it scares him as much as it scares me. He doesn't talk about his feelings much - or at all, really - so I honestly don't know. Part of me wishes he did tell me that kind of stuff, but at the same time I respect his privacy. He came from a time where men didn't talk about their problems, after all. They had to be pillars of strength for their families: unshakable, unbreakable, the shoulder to cry on while keeping their own tears buried deep within. I respect that... but at the same time, I wish I could tell him that it's okay to talk to me about things that bother him. That it's okay if he doens't feel strong or needs help.

At the end of the day, I love my father very much. He made me the person I am today, literally and figuratively. I miss being his "Little Buddy" sometimes, but at the same time I know he wants me to grow up and out from under his wing. To be my own person, and stand in the sun on my own two feet. I hope, someday, I can prove to him that I can be that person he's always wanted me to be, and that I can make him proud of his "Little Buddy" once again.