Wake up

This past Sunday was the second anniversary of my dad’s death. My body remembered before my brain did; in the weeks leading up to it, I felt moody and unproductive, and I couldn’t figure out why. Grief will do that to you.

I spent the day itself the same way I normally spend my Sundays: flinging myself through the air at aerial silk and trapeze classes. Later I volunteered with hospice patients at Hildegard House. I was worried the volunteering would be too much, but we only had one resident, and he slept most of my shift.

I decided that on my parents’ deathiversaries, I might share little memories about them here on the blog. So here’s a memory of my dad:

One winter night—I was probably 11 or 12—my dad shook my sister and I awake. It was past midnight, still dark outside, and at first I worried something was wrong. But Dad didn’t seem panicked. “Come upstairs to the Tuna Tower,” he said.

For reference: my dad was an architect, and he had designed our family home with this one little extra room at the very top of the house with big windows on three sides. It made the house appear as though it had three stories, but it was only the single room. We all called it the Tuna Tower, which is the name for those high observation towers on certain fishing boats.

Yeah, our whole family is weird. Anyway…

We climbed upstairs, and he pointed outside at our driveway. A blanket of snow had fallen, and an enormous buck with huge antlers was standing there. It wasn’t uncommon to see deer in our area, but I’d never seen a wild buck before. The animal seemed a bit confused—maybe the sudden snowfall had thrown him off? We watched him for a long time as he slowly made his way up the driveway and into the woods behind our house.

We had school the next day, but my dad thought it was more important that we witness this rare creature. He wasn’t much of an awe-and-wonder guy, for the most part. But he wanted that for his daughters.