Last minute

One year ago today. February 21, 2006. We decided not to tell him that the steak and potato dinner had been thrown together last minute. Who wants to be told that his loved ones almost forgot his birthday? I’m glad Larry never knew that we almost forgot his special day. My mom and I frantically grilled steaks and chopped vegetables so that we could prepare a special meal before he came home from work. His favorite; he was a meat and potatoes kind of guy. Simple.

He loved his truck. Burgundy leather seats, four wheel drive, a good old American GMC. I used to laugh at him for being a city cowboy. You’re not on a horse – why do you wear boots and a belt buckle? Why drive a truck? You’re not hauling anything except your business papers. How impractical, how silly. I resented him.

How could he take my mother away from me? We were so happy, she and I, mother and daughter. Our little brown rancher home. Hikes to the reservoir. Late nights of watching Pride and Prejudice. Then this man who is not my father. Telling me what to do, how to behave. He doesn’t treat me like the miniature adult that I am. Just because I am ten doesn’t mean that I can’t take care of myself. Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my dad. Don’t touch my cheek. Don’t squeeze my knee. Who do you think you are?

I’m so sorry. Forgive me. Part of it was my immaturity; part of it was the residue of divorce. Most of it was my raw selfish nature.

Over the passage of eight years, he slowly tapped into my life. A veterinarian, Larry had kindness in his hands. Children and animals really aren’t that different. Innocent, trusting, needing. He treated me like his patients, with patience and gentleness, and coaxed me into his arms. He put his hands on me. One year ago today. February 14, 2006. I came back from my dinner date, and he was waiting for me with a stuffed bear and chocolate. It had been a hard day. My mom had been gone for two weeks tending my sick grandmother. But Larry was there, and he wrapped me in an embrace. He put his hands on my head and stroked my hair. I couldn’t let go; those hands held me for a solid half hour. It felt so good to be held. To be loved. I think at that moment, I finally decided to let him into my life. I had been slowly opening my heart to him over the course of eight years, and I had finally twisted the handle and opened the door. Be a part of my family. Let me share my life with you. Will you be my dad?

One year ago today. February 23, 2006. My first day at work. My first day at a real job. I was making 6.75 an hour, folding clothes and sweeping stores of the Express clothing store. When I went on my dinner break at 6:05, Larry left his office. When I was searching the back room for the broom at 6:35, he had finished picking up groceries for my mom and was northbound on Highway 83. At 6:55, I was refolding camisoles on the shelf. Where were you, Larry? It was dark by then. You were in your leather burgundy drivers seat. What were you thinking? Were you relieved to be coming home to see my mom? Was it a long day at work? It was dark by then. You had your lights on, how could you have not seen the approaching car? Did you not see that he was accelerating at the intersection? 6:55. Why not 6:54? It was all you needed. Another minute at a stop light. One more person in line at the grocery store. What did it feel like when the car hit your truck, your four wheel drive impractical cowboy wannabe GMC? Did it hurt? Did you have on your seatbelt? Did you feel the asphalt on your head? Did you feel the hands of the sixteen year old girl who ran to your unconscious body? It was dark by then. I hope I didn’t hurt too badly.

I don’t remember what the last words you said to me. I don’t remember the last time that I saw you. You slide from my memory everyday. My life is so radically different now. It’s only been a year. Would I seem that changed to you? I’m going to DU now. My mom and I are making it. We’re going to move. She bought a new car. I gave a speech at graduation. I have some incredible professors. I have great friends. I’m becoming an adult. Are you proud? I wish you could see me now. You’re my dad, and I miss you. I don’t think about the accident all the time. I wouldn’t be able to live. But the pain doesn’t go away. Charity once told me, probably four or five years ago: “the pain never loses its intensity, but the moments come less frequently.” Here’s the moment. One year plus one day.