by Melody Bowen
Yesterday my boyfriend and I went to Kingston to the cemetery where my Dad is buried to decorate his grave for Memorial Day, and to play our banjos. Daddy has been gone for over two years now, and I'm still acutely aware of how much I miss him every single day. I found myself wishing for perhaps the 100,000th time that I could see him, talk to him, spend some time with him... and I decided that maybe I should just write to him. So, in honor of today's holiday, here's a letter to Daddy, with just a few of the things I'd say to him if I could...
I wish that I could talk to you today. Things are so much different now than they were when you were still with me. I often find myself thinking how much I'd love to talk to you and tell you everything that's happening, how much I'd love to have just a little time to sit and talk to you.
I've been dating Ned for almost a year now. He's a banjo player, like you, and I know the two of you would have loved each other. I'd love to have been able to sit and watch the two of you play together and laugh together. I'd love to see him crack jokes with you, and I'd love to see you poke fun at his earring and then play your banjos together late into the night. I'd love to hear the music that would have resulted, too. Ned bought a new banjo last week, a vintage-looking Gibson, the kind that would have made your heart leap. He commented how he'd love to have been able to show it to you, play it with you. We brought it with us when we came to your grave yesterday, and I brought your banjo Moses, and Ned and I played them together. We played the last song you wrote, "Skipping Through the Daisies", and I think you'd be really proud of the harmony arrangement Ned came up with. We played "Home Sweet Home" for you also. It will always be the song that makes me think of you most. I've been working on that tune a lot lately, and it's getting better all the time. One day maybe I'll play it as well as you did. Everyone seems to expect me to play really well, because they keep saying that I'm your daughter, so I should naturally be able to play the way you did. I guess I'll always live in your shadow, Dad, and that's okay with me. It's a shadow of a man so big and so great, a man I'm honored to have known.
I really miss you right now, Dad. I miss you when I hear something funny in a movie, or when somebody tells me a good joke. I miss the way you'd laugh, and I miss the way you'd save every great joke so you could tell it to just the right person, the person who'd love it the most. I miss Saturday mornings, the way we could sit and watch cartoons together (even when I was a grown woman), and I miss the way you'd slap your knee and laugh. I always loved the way you laughed with your whole heart and soul.
I miss the way you were always there for me... no matter if things in my life were good, bad, or worse. I miss you most when I feel uncertain about my life and its path, and I wonder what you'd think of the choices I've made and what I've become in my 34 years. I miss you when things are great with my boyfriend, because I so badly wish that I could tell you about him. Then there are times when I feel uncertain, and I wish you could be there for me then too. I wish that you and I could go for ice cream, and you'd buy me a Rocky Road in a sugar cone and order a vanilla for yourself the way you did when I was a little girl. You'd sit and listen to me tell you about my joys and my fears, and you'd give me your perspective and your wisdom.
I miss you when I'm uncertain about my job, because sometimes I wonder if this is the right job for me. Sometimes I think you'd tell me it was great because it pays well and my employer seems to appreciate my contribution. I think you'd tell me that my hard work would all pay off. Other times I think maybe you'd encourage me to make a change, take some chances, and try to write something more exciting than technical instructions. Sometimes I think you'd be disappointed that I've settled into life as a technical writer, because maybe you expected me to do something else. Sometimes I think you'd be proud of me even if I decided to flip burgers or clean toilets for a living. I just wish I could ask you.
I hope you'd be proud that I'm playing the banjo. I'm working really hard to get better at it, and I'm so sorry that I never let you teach me. Your banjo feels so natural in my hands that I wish, I wish, I wish every day that I could have played it when you were alive. If I could go back and re-write my life, change the plot, change the actions, change the heart and soul of the main character -- me -- I would. I'd change so very many things. I'd go back and make different choices. I'd have spent less of my time on nonsense, and I'd have spent more time just hanging out with you. Every time you said, "Mel, do you think you'll ever learn to play the banjo?", I'd have said, "Yeah. How about now?" And I'd have sat down with you and let you teach me the magic that came from your fingers. Wouldn't it be great if we could turn back time, go back and edit our choices? I'd cross out with a big red pen every time I made a choice that disappointed you, and I'd replace all of those choices with the ones that would have made you proud, the ones that would have made you smile.
I found myself really missing you last week when when I was in Pittsburgh on business. I stole away on Saturday night and visited an old amusement park on the Monongahela River. I rode an old wooden roller coaster built in the 1920s. I sat in the back seat (the best set), and I threw my arms in the air and closed my eyes as I crested each hill and plunged. As I sat beside an empty seat, I could almost feel you beside me, could almost hear your laughter. I could almost hear you hollering "Woohoo!" right along with me. I am thankful that you gave me your sense of adventure, and I'm thankful that you left me with a child-like spirit of playfulness that I intend to never outgrow.
I don't know how all this works, Dad. I don't know if you can see me from up there, and I don't know if you can hear me when I talk to you. But I hope you can. I hope you can look down on me as I wander around in my little life, and I hope that I make you proud. I hope that I make you laugh too. Most of all, I miss laughing with you.
Remembering you from here in the shadow of the greatest man I've ever known,
With all my love, always Daddy's little girl,
Melody Ann