Father’s Day was the last time I saw him; July 4th, the last time we spoke.  My birthday marks the anniversary of the day we made arrangements and chose the spot where we buried my father.  I mark the holidays with the significant details of my ending relationship with my father, how it all went down, and as we celebrate this year, the second since he’s gone, I’m trying to get through it with my emotions in check.  

Yesterday was Independence Day and we drove down to the ocean, kids in tow, for a good old American day of warm beer and sandy chips.  We were meeting friends down there, the old kind who knew my dad and understood.  There’s a special affinity I hold for people who’d met him.  They could appreciate what’s missing.

The air was thick as we went over the bridge, the fog making it hard to see past just a few cars ahead of us.  We could hear the crash of the waves on the shore, but we couldn’t see it.  The tape of our last conversation played in my head on repeat, even as I tried to beat it back with the grooves of Bob Marley and the yells of arguing children.

It was a shitty way to say goodbye to a dad, even if I had no way of knowing that this was what we were doing.  We’d had plans for a barbecue at friends of my in-laws, but they were tentative because my son had been fighting a fever all week.  Jacob had missed his cousin’s birthday party the day before, and so I’d missed the last chance to see my dad as everyone else had.  I’d even relished the day to myself, unimpeded by familial obligations that day.  My sister took my daughter to the party, my husband stayed home with my sick boy, and I got myself a pedicure.

I spoke to my father that night, the third, and said that if Jacob was still running a fever we would stay home from the barbecue.  I asked him if he would like to come by for a mellow celebration, something low-key for the holiday - we would grill up some burgers and light sparklers in the driveway.  He lit up, over the phone.  “That sounds lovely,” he said, happy to have a plan, feeling welcome in our small family circle.  It would have been.

It would have been heaven.

Instead, Jacob’s fever cleared up and the prospect of a pool party sounded just lovely to us.  So as I was running my morning errands, I called my dad from the car wash.  He picked right up, happy to hear from me, as he always was.  You would think that would have prompted more calls from me, but it didn’t.  

I told him we were going to the barbecue after all.  His voice went high as he tried to pretend that it didn’t hurt him to be dismissed, just like that.  He said he would call a woman he dated, see what she was doing.  He said it would be fine.

I stared at my cell phone in my hand for a long time after we’d hung up, hesitating. I thought about calling him back, calling off the party at the pool, disappointing my in-laws and the kids.  But the dark skinned guy with the towel in his hand called to me in a Spanish accent.  He nodded toward my minivan, indicating that it was ready.  Though my dad’s voice weighed heavily in the pit of my stomach, I drove away.  

And never spoke to him again.

When he didn’t answer the phone, happy to hear my voice two days later when I called to invite him over to celebrate my birthday, I knew he was dead.  

Try as I might to conjure happy memories, and there are plenty, this week of celebration brings back that call and those feelings, always lingering there under the surface, bubbling to the top with every glass of wine or fifties are song on the radio.  But as I drove through the fog on the bridge yesterday morning, it felt as though the sky was reaching down to greet me, lowering itself to my level just to plant a reassuring pat on the back, or maybe I can let myself believe it was a hug.

And maybe if I’m really kind to myself, I can feel that the fog was Heaven itself, descending upon me.

With forgiveness.