A Lovestory for Liam
If our relationship was atonement for what my father lacked in life, his death and my grief must be a love story even if I hated myself.
It was 1950, and my grandfather was at war while my grandmother was fighting battles of her own between authoring books and caring for newborn twins. The second pregnancy and a third child within the Green family was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. My father was born in late November, poetically aligned with a national holiday, further obscuring his arrival as something special. He was delivered into resentment and reared with rage and neglect.
If you knew Bill Green (Liam), you knew the disappointment of his ethos. He organized his life as if the childhood trauma he endured was unchanged and immutable. It was perhaps the reason he devoted so much to little me, a way to restore order in his chaos. I was a substitution for the actual healing required. I understood my place in this dynamic, and I happily made up for what had not worked out. If he could save himself through me with empathy when my mother misunderstood me, regret when punishments were ferocious and familiar, or purchase sugar and sentiment at unnatural intervals, then indeed he might transgress the slow boil of sustained misery.
At his wake in November of 2018, a picture sat beside his ashes on a table dressed for mourning. A pensive boy-child sat on a basinless birdbath cloaked in plaid, overalls, and innocence. The legs dangled and ended with buckle brown leather T-bar flats, the scalloped surface bursting with socks too big for the feet they swallowed. The hair was ruffled and uncombed; he looked like someone who was loved and loathed.
I recognized this version of my father in a memory I had of leaving our apartment complex pool one evening. I was floating, gliding, and moving like a fish with the help of my water wings. But it was time to go home for dinner, and my dad swiftly carried my protesting form out of the water. I latched onto either end of his bountiful mustache, twisting and pulling at the same time. I aimed to deliver pain, and I had accomplished that in more ways than one. As a result of this behavior, I was spanked, spanked, and spanked in front of an aquatic audience. I felt less the sharp slapping stings from his hands and more the regret that came with every blow. He stopped and placed me on the deck, lowering his face to mine. His eyes softened, and he verbalized an apology meant to make us both feel better. I was catered to the rest of the night, showered with treats and extra bedtime stories. As he said goodnight, he sat just like he had on the birdbath in the picture beside his remains.
My father’s death had turned the volume down so I could hear but not listen. There was little room inside of me, and growth of any kind was out of the question. I replayed the last time I saw him over and over in my head, the precious denial of my brother, the sickening way a doctor had harassed me while my father’s exposed chest flatlined and pointlessly heaved. Eventually, I saw a hospice counselor, completed a literal marathon, and made arrangements for his burial in Derry, Northern Ireland. Dad’s siblings, the twins, and a younger sister, suggested we do so nestled within my grandparent’s plot in Kilderry-Eskaheen. So here I was, the night before the internment, staring at the boy that raised me.
The following day, I choked out a eulogy invoking Maya Angelou and togetherness. I met those who knew of dad in Derry. My grandparents had lived there before they died. They spoke fondly of their children once time removed duty from the equation.
I ate beyond my hunger the night before I flew home. I fought with my girlfriend at the gate of our flight because she wanted to buy souvenirs for her family back home. Belfast looked the way I felt as I left it; cloudy, cold, and disgusted.
On the same mourning table where I found my father the night of his wake, another image stood out. He and I are on the floor surrounded by newspapers and a green shag carpet. He’s still wearing plaid, but in this one, he has a smile on his face, next to me. We are as close as possible, our heads tilting and nearly conjoined. I knew this was the image meant for me, one to take and use when I was ready. It would sit on my bedside table before setting it permanently on the mantle in my living room.
If our relationship was atonement for what he lacked in life, his death and my grief must be a love story even if I hated myself.
My love story to Liam, my father, is being written as I learn to love myself and live in places where two things can be true; I can regret and continue, I can survive and thrive, I can be dauntless and terrified.
My grief is enormous, but my love is more significant, and I hope it all fits on the pages to come.