My father passed six years ago, today, after a long battle with lymphoma. Since then, as each anniversary of his death has approached, I’ve considered writing about him, and the love a son has for his father. And then I’ve set it aside, not being able to wrap my mind around all of the little things I’d want to include. A few weeks ago, I resolved not to let it pass this time, and to keep it short.
Those few weeks ago, I was visiting my mother in Maine, having an opportunity for a side trip while travelling for business. I managed to attend a Daily Mass and Sunday Mass with her. For the Friday mass, we sat near some of Mom’s cousins that she’s close to, Tom and Mariette Castonguay, cousins I myself don’t know well. I’d probably been introduced to them at some point in my life, but Mom introduced me again.  I needed it — Mom’s mom was one of thirteen children, and their numerous descendants are densely distributed around my hometown.
On Sunday, we didn’t see them when we entered, but Mom headed for her regular spot, towing me along. I ended up on the left end of the pew, against the clerestory aisle. Tom and Mariette joined us shortly, and sat in the pew ahead of us. Coming from behind, Tom reached out and gripped my shoulder in greeting, before taking his seat. I’m not typically greeted that way by anyone, and was startled, but stuttered out a “good morning”. I stuttered because while struck by the unexpected contact, I was also startled by the sudden physical memory of my father gripping my shoulder in precisely the same way. “Pop” wasn’t much of a hugger, but would grip my shoulder. Sometimes for disciplinary reasons, but most of my memories of this are greetings or congratulations.
Tom didn’t notice, but by the time he was seated in front of me, I had tears running down my face, my composure completely destroyed by the intense sense of my father’s presence. Us Roman Catholics believe in the communion of saints, the reality of the dead’s continued existence, and their availability for intentions. There’s no way my sudden surge of emotion would be “evidence” for that in any normal sense, but I was (and am) sure my father was there with me as I sat with Mom. It took me a minute or two to rein in the flow of tears and snuffle my way to enough composure to lean toward Mom and whisper “Pop’s here with us, Mom”. Mom’s response was simply “He’s always here with us.”
After mass, I shared my experience with Tom and Mariette, with appreciation for his role in loco parentis, even if inadvertent. And I wanted Mom to know why I was silently crying before mass. I’m not a terribly emotional man, so it was rather out of character. I didn’t want her to wonder what was wrong and worry about me.
Thinking more on Mom’s comment, I have to admit that Pop has always been in my head — the role model I’ve most wanted to emulate. First as a young man pursuing engineering in an industry he’d succeeded in, and then as a father myself, raising rambunctious children of my own. Long before he passed, I’d internalized the question “What would Pop do?” when faced with the challenges of work and marriage and life in general. I know that some of his personality rubbed off on me, as my children have reported episodes with their Pépère that echoed episodes here at home.
My father’s aid and encouragement and understanding is at the foundation of the man and father I am today, and I cannot be more grateful. { Though my failures are my own. /-: }
Thank you, Pop. I know you are still with me, in every sense but physical.
{ Edit: Comments welcome at Gab.ai }
