Feline Warrior

Notes on Father’s Day

Father’s Day 2007 - Do you know where your father is? I know where mine is. He’s in the closet. No, no, no - he’s not gay. He’s literally in the closet. My coat closet. Top shelf. A box. A tube of some kind. In that tube is what’s left of my father. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. My dad’s “cremains” are in the closet.

I was supposed to have contacted the VA to have a military service for him - I told his brothers and my cousins I’d do it in the spring. That would have been the spring we just wrapped up. I just couldn’t do it. It’s not that I want to keep him in my closet forever, like some weird “Hunger” fetish. The whole thought process just makes me sad.

Henri & Baby Franque long ago…

So anyway, my dad is in the closet, in a tube, waiting to be placed into a military crypt. I don’t know why I can’t let him go but apparently I just can’t. Even with our weird-ass relationship, he was still my dad. There were plenty of times he did not come through for me, nor act anything like a parent, but with years of therapy and other sorts of help, I got to the place where, when he needed me, I was able to step up and none of that old stuff mattered anymore.

It made me terribly sad, really, the last two years of his life, to see him in the state he was: Tiny, frail, old beyond (way beyond) his years. He had given up on life many years before, so it wasn’t exactly surprising to see actual physical evidence of that giving up, but it was at times alarming.

Oh, and I tried to make him want to live, but you can’t ever really do that. There’s got to be a speck of desire to live in a person, I think. His was gone. I can’t tell you why and I have spent many years analyzing it. My theorizing has always gone back to an American-dream-gone-wrong theory. He set out in his young life with certain expectations and was on his way to achieving them. Somewhere along the line, booze got in the way. Or people with their own hopes and dreams and self-will. When the universe does not align to match one’s expectations, it is best to reconsider those expectations and perhaps attempt to align oneself with the universe. Go with the big power - the Higher Power, if you will.

Oh, and did I tell you about my pathetic attempts to get father’s day cards for the uncles? It was horrible. I’d make it into the aisle and then start crying. Three different times I tried this, and the tears presented themselves each time. I’d say to myself, “Franque, for cryin’ out loud, he’s been dead since November!” and then I’d kind of give myself an internal bitch-slap: Seven months isn’t that long and especially not long at all when the topic is mourning one’s dead dad. Who currently resides in the coat closet.

Do you think that the air is thick with the souls of those who have passed? Like a hot, humid summer night? Another time I’ll tell you about my peculiar religious upbringing, but suffice it to say that I desperately want to believe that Henri and everyone else I’ve loved (and you’ve loved, too) are present somewhere. It’s just that I don’t wan them to end. And selfishly, I don’t want me to end. I want it to go on and on, even though sometimes the pain of thinking it won’t is deep and insomnia-causing. (Also part of the religious upbringing story.)

Maybe by writing about it, I will be moved to put Henri where he’s supposed to be. But he didn’t really care. He said he didn’t care. I had to threaten him with a trip to the taxidermist if he wouldn’t tell me: (a) cremation or (b) no cremation; (c) funeral or (d) no funeral; and (e) memorial service or (f) no memorial service. After laughing to the point of requiring a breathing treatment, he selected a, d and f - one of our more popular packages, being so low-budget and all. (And it’s damn hard to have a memorial service when you’re in a freakin’ box in a CLOSET.)

It’s late. I’m tired. I’m glad Father’s Day is over.