Zero Five One Zero, Five Ten, Tenth of May, May 10th

At Walgreens I’m buying the cards of May. Mother’s Day, the Boy’s 18th birthday, my brother’s birthday. I stand before the selection of cards for Fathers. Today is his birthday. He would have been 82 today. Would have been.

He used to shake his head and say, Save your money, when I would ask him what he wanted for his birthday. When I was a child, I’d make him coupons out of construction paper and crayons: On them I’d write Good for One Car Wash, or Good for Raking the Yard, or Good for one Back Rub. The one that said, Good for a Kiss and a Hug, all over which I'd drawn happy faces and hearts, that one he saved. I decorated a box for him one year, by deco paging images I’d cut out from his magazines. He didn’t say a word about my cutting up his magazines, instead he made a big deal about how much he loved the box. I beamed with pride. That box stayed on a shelf in his office for the rest of his life. It’s still there.

I used to give him paintings I’d painted, words I’d written, decorative clay bowls I’d make in art class or at camp. These are the gifts I remember, the gifts I gave him when I was a child. Of course as I got older, I would buy him things but it’s still the gifts I made that he cherished and displayed. As my interest and abilities in photography developed, I returned to making him his gifts, framed enlargements of photos he admired, pictures of his dog, his hunting property, or the self-portrait I took years ago. Those too were displayed in his office; the self-portrait he carried in his suitcase when he traveled. In its silver 8 x 10 frame. When I asked Mom why Dad traveled with a photo of me, she said, He’s proud of you; he likes to show it off.

In New York last weekend, Mom awoke in the middle of the night and asked, Is Dad here? I told her that he was not. She was confused and a bit upset that night, said the she guessed he couldn’t make it. I stayed with her until she fell back asleep, holding her hand, telling her it was okay. I felt him close by, and I promised in words unspoken, I’ll take care of her, Dad, I’ll take care of her.

I’d like to say out loud, Happy Birthday, Daddy-o. And there’s no reason I cannot, but for not wanting the words to go unheard. But still I'll give him something, something I’ve made: A promise. I will take care of her, Dad. I will always take care of her.