"Here's to husbands," and I raised my paper cup of root beer and ice cream to my sister's cup. We looked at each other and tears dribbled down our cheeks.
"How did we get here?" was her reply.
The day was the eighth anniversary of my husband's death from a particularly nasty cancer- although I'm not sure there is any other type. Every year on this anniversary and on his birthday in March, friends and family celebrate his life with his favorite- root beer floats. I was fifty-one when he died. Now my fifty-one year old sister shares root beer and widowhood with me.
We'd never been together to share this little ritual or this sisterhood, this sorority that no woman wants to join. We reminisced about our marriages and laughed through our tears at what we imagined our husbands' reaction to all the recent upheaval, our dreams, our plans, our silliness.
"They's think we lost our minds," my sister said dryly. She paused and sipped. A fresh gush of tears. She looked up at me and choked over her next words,
"But somewhere, Daddy is really proud of us."
And we sipped over the salty lumps in our throats. Public ice cream parlors are lousy venues for teary widows.
Our father wasn't perfect but somehow in the midst of imperfect parenting, misunderstandings and stormy teen years, we learned that he believed in us. His words still pop up in our vocabulary- especially "Dawn's cracked, time's a-wasted." He taught us by his example that men treat women well- they try to provide and protect. He taught us to ski but more importantly, he taught us to persevere and face our fears. We stood together on the mountain ridge we had just labored up and plunged together over the edge. We saw him rejoice in the sheer thrill of snow flying behind as he sped down the hill and we followed his lead. He also taught us to maintain control, to watch out for beginners, to be considerate in an activity that promoted self indulgent hot-dogging.
By his example, we learned to work hard, to love one spouse, to commit to our children but also to stand outside on a starry night and breathe deep. Like him we love the feel of a camera in our hand and the elusive perfect picture. He was a dairy farmer who went to art museums and took us with him. In retirement, he hauled marble on his back off a Colorado mountain and then created clocks from the rocks, which he gave away.
And somewhere, he has two daughters who are grateful, who still miss him, who try to notice the stars..
and who are really proud of him.
"Thank you, Daddy."
