When we think of the past it’s the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that. (Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale)
Happy 101st Birthday, Dad!
I have this image of a cartoon. On the outside of a closed door is a sign that reads: miscellaneous. Papers stick-out from all sides. Recently, I shredded or recycled notes that could have been in Sanskrit. It was about time I eliminated the clutter. Other items struck me as precious finds. Jewels at the bottom of a deep sea.
If he were alive my father would be 101 the first day of this year. In the chaos I found this fantasy letter I wrote for him on his birthday in 2004.
***
Dear Dad,
This story is fiction. After all, I don’t recall anything that happened before I was two. However, I am imagining talking to the angel in charge of directing new souls. In the tale, fresh individuals can request either a young father or mother to-be, with the approval of higher authority of course.
The angel on duty sighed a lot as I chose my dad. I mean, perfect wasn’t possible, and the angel kept telling me, “You need to learn from life. Not live on some comfy cloud like a particle of icy elements. Think carefully…”
I took the guide literally and checked-out earth in the 1940’s for half of forever.
He got testy after I finished the tenth global spin. “The boss didn’t take this long when he chose his son’s mother. Give me your best-daddy data. Now.”
He entered the statistics on this computer that was part cloud and part moving keyboard. At this time only manual typewriters existed on earth, the kind that required a complete redo when the user made a mistake on the last line. “You do have non-cusser on my list.”
“I got it. I got it.”
I add, “I will need someone who can fix things. You know, a man with good mechanical sense.”
The angel shook his head and then looked into the store of talents I would have and nodded. “Oh yes, you will have creative abilities. However, you will need help in the practical field. Please take you-know out of that sentence. I have a sense your future father won’t like that habit.”
“Make him a generous carpenter.” I added.
“So now you are asking for Joseph II.” The angel sighed.
That’s when I saw you, Dad. In Africa. In an army uniform. “Yes! I decided.”
“Are you ready to see who he will marry as soon as the war is over? Dad’s busy taking bombs apart before they explode right now.”
The angel turned a switch and I saw a short woman with blue eyes and natural brown curls. A great cook.
“Okay, let me know when to be ready.”
“You’ll know. Believe me. You’ll know.”
Sometime before the birth process I lost all recollection of this story and grew up like every human does. I think it’s supposed to be that way. However, I am glad I made a heck of a good choice. Happy birthday to a super father, even if this page reveals more imagination than fact.
(And maybe an edited word or two… or three.)
The angel in the above photo fell, broke, and had a botched super-glue surgery. Nevertheless, she never dropped her light. She is also a statue; the injury becomes metaphorical. No one escapes pain and loss. May we continue anyway.
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