I know this is part of the gig, my beloved Ava, but I caught myself sitting at my desk just now, staring at a photograph (ok, ok, an “image”) of you, and feeling my heart ache for all the times you’ll be away from me. Sleepovers. Field trips. Dates. College. Conferences….
There’s an ad running these days for a movie that has as its tagline, “He didn’t understand how much a father could love his child.” Every time I see it, I sneak a sideways glance at your mother, who’s almost always with me when I see the ad, to see if she’s looking at me. Is she quietly sizing me up?
I think often of what I would do, as your father, in different situations. If someone were to hurt you. And I’m not sure if it’s my love for you that would dictate my response. The movie for which this ad exists appears to be about a man who goes to great (and often violent) lengths to learn about his young daughter’s demise. I’m not violent. I don’t think that means I love you any less than a man who would attack anyone fitting the description of his daughter’s killer, but then again….
I wonder about the depth of my love for you and don’t know if I can ever understand it. I had a dream nightmare the other night that I was running down the middle of a dark street with your soiled, bloody, broken body jangling limply along as I cried out for someone to help me. I guess I wasn’t man or father enough to either prevent what happened to you or to adequately address the aftermath by myself. And there you were, a sad, maybe lifeless symbol of my failure. I awoke without moving to find your mom and brother sleeping next to me, sounds of their breathing drowned out by the humidifier at the foot of our bed.
When I was younger, I was captivated by stories about people who, confronted with a tremendous physical obstacle standing in the way of saving a loved one, exhibited a superhuman feat of strength in overcoming that obstacle. Was that love flexing its muscles?
I hope I never have to plumb the depths of my love for you in this way, Ava. You walked into our room (early) this morning with your little stuffed pinto pony, Sparkle, under your arm and sleep still falling away from your face, and looking upon you was like seeing my whole life before me. I won’t do anything greater in this life than give you and your brother to the world. I hope there’s some primitive spot of reckoning somewhere way back in your mind that tells you your father will always care for you, because Lord knows I’m not always (or never, as Leah would say) good at telling you as much.
