Dancing with Dad

My father is over 90-years-old and today, I accompanied him to another funeral. These occasions are becoming more frequent and emotionally harder for him. Most of his friends are a decade, if not more, younger than him, as was the friend who died this week.

I know all my dad's mates. They are the youthful men of my childhood; their now middle-aged children were my playmates. Funerals are some of the only times I see them. We turn up knowing the formula: the apologies among the living for not catching up more often, the sea of dark clothes that ripples as the attendees move and join in the rituals of goodbye. The inevitable question: how to sum up a life in a few minute's eulogy?

Dad's hands shake as he holds the service booklet. His friend's face smiles from the cover. On the back, his friend is pictured as a sombre young man. The few sheets of paper in between try to hold together the story of the years that connect the two images. 

Dad leans to me. "I saw him a little while ago. He didn’t look well.' His voice cracks as he goes on. 'He said to me, Friend, I think they're coming for me.' He turned away, gulping back tears.

We don't always know when death will come but at Dad's age, it's closer than most. I have no idea of what it feels like for him to attend a funeral. I can only imagine the thoughts and emotions that engulf him. Overly protective, I flounder trying to work out how to ease his distress. All I can do is rest a hand on his shoulder. It feels inadequate.

In the seat ahead of us, a young mother wrangles a toddler. He looks to be about 13-months-old and he's just found his feet. He explores the world, gurgling happily, while those around him mourn. Suddenly he notices Dad and stretches his arms towards him.

Dad reaches to pick him up.

The bub's mother whispers, 'He's too heavy.'

Dad shakes his head and mouths it's okay then collects him in his arms.

The toddler explores my father's face with his hands, trying to lift off Dad's glasses, using a language all of his own. Dad offers the child his thumb, which the toddler readily grabs and they press their cheeks together, pretending to dance. The toddler laughs. Dad's face glows as he smiles.

Just as suddenly, the bub turns back his mum and leans toward her. As his mother cuddles him, he smiles broadly and watches Dad over her shoulder.  

In that small space of time, Dad's tears ease.

It reminded me of something a friend told me years ago—that babies bring their own love to the world. I wonder if that bub sensed a need in Dad, who was a stranger to him.

I'd like to think that my friend's theory about babies' love was right; that somehow the love had stretched across the nearly ninety years between this baby and my father, and given Dad a few moments' comfort.

As the mourners surged out of the church, the toddler and his mum were swallowed into the crowd. We didn't see them again.

Maybe we'll see them at the next funeral.

I hope he and Dad will dance.

A Valentine’s Day confession (Don’t tell my husband. This is my true love!)

Long before I met my husband, I would often fall asleep in the arms of another, many others actually.

My bed was shared with old and new loves. Even when I finished with one and moved onto another, I never let go of the one before. They shared my bedroom, resided on shelves, dripped off the bedside table or leaned in assorted sized towers on the floor. Books. Books were my first love and my world. They gave me what I often didn’t get from reality—a sense of place, a sense of belonging. Books allowed me to step away from everything else to tumble into worlds where nothing else mattered. They never let me down.

My mother was proud of the fact that I began to read very young, but she was frustrated by my insistence on taking books everywhere – the loo, on car trips, the table at dinner time. I refused to give them up. What kid doesn’t want her best friends to tag along everywhere? My mother coped by accepting my love affair and buying more bookshelves.

Television wasn't allowed in my home until I was twelve years old and even on its introduction, I was restricted to one hour of viewing a day. It made no difference to me. My relationship with books was already entrenched. At night, I fell asleep with my nose buried in between open pages that caressed my cheeks like leafed hands. There I would sleep, taking the characters into my dreams. When Mum came in to turn off the light, even in my dreamlike state, I’d wrestle her for the book she tried to remove from my hands. No one was going to break us up. I cuddled hardcover books like other children cuddled soft teddy bears.

My bed is still surrounded by these wonderful friends. I don’t expect my relationships with them to change. I get too much out of them. I'm nourished and feel like I'm being showered with gifts with every new story that I read. I’d rather receive a bouquet of bookmarks to use with novels than receive a bouquet of roses. We’re joined at the hip and there will be no separation.

As for my lovely husband, he accepts that he has to share me with these past and yet-to-be sweethearts. He knows I will regularly rant to him about the time I've spent with them, how happy they’ve made me, what they’ve taught me, how they’ve become part of me. He doesn’t seem to mind, so there’s no threat really. And, why would there be?

He and I have been together so long, I can read him like a book.