Trans/plant/portation

There is a heavy glass frame on a sideboard table in my dining room, among other sundry items like playing cards, pottery serving pieces, and right now, a stack of diplomas earned by Susanne and myself as we reorganize the office into a nursery. In the frame is a picture of my parents, some sunny day from the 1980s, on a trip they took to Hawaii. They’re seated at a luau, with beautiful leis around their necks—nothing resembling the cheap plastic ones you can find at the dollar store—but what they’re wearing most wonderfully are their smiles. My mother’s hair is perfect; my father is wearing a new, hasn’t-been-stained-yet tropical shirt, and they’re just about to settle in for a fun evening. If photos can capture and preserve a moment in time forever, this was a great one to snatch. Read More…

My father passed away in 1995, a few weeks after my birthday, and a few weeks before his 67th. He was a gambling addict, a child of the Great Depression, a churchgoer and a divorcé. I have been made well aware of this one man’s faults from many people he wronged, even though I didn’t commit his crimes and even though I am likely to internalize his shame. After 15 years of reflection on the father I knew and lost, I think I see him for who he was—a person with faults who wanted to do right and often fell short, a man who felt a terrible push-pull of obligation and scratching for freedom, and who most sadly, died full of regret. I fight to push past his mistakes and my own because I don’t want my life to end with any similarity. Read More…