Father Figure

When I was sixteen years old, I lost my father. I didn’t really understand that I had lost him until I was a few years older. In retrospect, I really might have lost him when I hit puberty.

When my parents got divorced, my dad stopped being my “dad,” and for a while he was a “father.” Yet, slowly, he dissolved into an estranged distant relative; the type of person you would only see during the holidays, or the odd third cousin you weren’t actually related to, but had to carry on an awkward conversation with for the sake of your grandmother.

What I lost in my father wasn’t so much him specifically, but instead it was the marred image of everything that I remembered of him - every memory he had been in - and everything that he will be absent from.

Memories of growing up… We would never fish again together and discuss the finer points of the Sunday morning comics. We will never wakeup early together, listening to smooth jazz on KSBR, while drinking coffee with too much cream. No longer does he take me garage-saling or camping or hiking. I will never again hear him call me “Poogie” from the sidelines of a soccer field.

Firsts he has already missed in my life: my first love, my first pet, my first big move, my first college degree, my first trip to Vegas, my first cigar, my first drive in the snow.

Worst of all are the milestones he has yet to miss, but will; memories we will never make. He will not be asked for my hand in marriage. He will not be there for my father-daughter dance or to walk me down the isle. He will not be there for the births of my children. He will miss me buying my first home. He will not see me receive my Bachelor’s degree.

I lost my father. Last I knew, he was living in Tennessee. I tried so hard to reach out to the man that called me “Poogie,” the man who was supposed to hold my hand and protect me from the world, the man I loved as “Dad,” respected as a “father,” and introduced as “Dave.” But, he broke my heart when I was twenty.

I wrote him a letter; gushing my heart out, I tried to invite him into my life with my words. I told him about work and school, about my love life, and about my first time moving into an apartment with friends. I was reaching out for that man I had once known.

My “father,” that strange man, used my handwritten letter as court evidence. He used my own words as proof that he was no longer legally responsible for my health insurance. He relegated our relationship to a financial burden. My health and finances were none of his concern.

Somewhere, I had lost his love. I had lost my father by his own choice and actions. I finally gave up. I lost an irreplaceable love.

Thrift Store Shopping & Beer Tasting

So, my mommy came to visit me over Labor Day weekend.  And, like any good daughter, I put her to work.  We did a bunch of thrift and bargain shopping/hunting and then decorated my new room.  Here are some pics of our handy work!

And, after a long day of hard work, Nancy and I took my mom out for Vietnamese!  Mmm...  I <3 Pho!

I think that was a #56 special...  ;0)

Saddly, my mom had to go home on Labor Day.  But, not until after she was immersed in the beer culture of Denver by way of the Denver Micro Brew Tour!

Great Divide Brewery

Mom and I tasting an IPA

Mom waiting for the tour to start

 Trying the Colette at the Great Divide

Mom on the 16th Street Mall tram

Mom at Breckenridge Brewery using our Free Pint coupons from the tour.

Mom: "I can't believe I actually like a dark beer!"

Cheers!

 

~ Laura