1979

Dad's wool suit hung in the back seat of the car next to me. I stroked it and studied it so as to permanently remember the sensations. It was both rough and smooth all at once, dark charcoal in color, with fine white pinstripes. It smelled like my father. I pressed my face against the lapel. No one would mind if I got tears on the suit. It wasn't coming home again. It would never be drycleaned again. It would be worn only once more.

Next to the suit was Dad's white dress shirt, as well as a tie, burgundy red if I recall correctly. My mother had wrestled with herself over whether or not to include the shiny black dress shoes, but couldn't bear to let my father be well-dressed and not have shoes, even for burial. So she had brought them, and they were on the seat next to me. I could picture Dad polishing them on Sunday mornings, his hands whisking the brush back and forth. I could recall him wearing them with the suit. He was tall and handsome.

My mother slid weakly into the front passenger seat of our Olds 98 sedan, visibly emotional. My brother sat quietly in the back seat near me. My uncle took the wheel. I realized that it would never again be my Dad in the driver's seat as we drove to church, or the city, or the farm. Never again would he be driving us down the highway on vacation, grumbling that we kids were being too loud, or spontaneously singing silly old songs, or quoting “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear...” just for the fun of it.

Thoughts churned as we drove slowly and silently through the streets of our town. When we arrived at the funeral home, with my hands slightly trembling and my heart pounding, I carried the suit inside and handed it over to the attendant. It was respectfully carried away into a back room. I would never see it again, not on a hanger and not on my Dad.

I didn't see him in his coffin. The MVA that swiftly took his life left visible signs of trauma, so I was told. The last time I saw him he was in a wonderful mood, eager to get out the door and enjoy a drive in the country with family and friends. He had come back inside our house to say goodbye to me. I was busy chatting on the phone with a friend, like all seventeen-year-olds were prone to do, having chosen to spend my Sunday afternoon with my pals instead of going along on a family outing. He gave me a little kiss on the cheek, told me he loved me and walked out the door, happy. There was no better way to remember him. I chose to preserve that memory by not going to the viewing of his body.

Another thing I decided in those days was that I would never ask God why he took my father away when he did. As humans we always want to know the reasons for things. When God allows bad things to happen, we want an explanation. My choice to not ask why was borne of simple faith. I didn't need an explanation to believe that God had a reason for everything, including my Dad dying so young. It was okay to leave it at that. In the thirty years since Dad passed away, I have on occasion taken the liberty to ask why. Not because I expect an answer, or even truly want one. Sometimes I just need to express my grief to God. I need to say out loud that I long to understand, that I choose to trust him with what I cannot understand.

I have a box in my basement that contains a few of my father's belongings. Among them is a jewelry box with some cufflinks, rings and tie clips. There is a small photo album with a soft leather cover, holding a few black and white photos from his life as a young man. I also have the green velour Ivy cap he was wearing the last time I saw him. Sometimes I take it out and run my fingers over it and remember the way he was smiling at me that day. For those moments, I am a daughter of a father, timeless.