Dad

Dad Brianna Gauthier

I am six years old, sitting in the backseat of my dad’s white Lumina. The grey felt of the backseat clings to my arms in the summer heat. We’re driving home from church listening to “Top of the World” by The Carpenters. My long hair is whipping in the wind from the windows as I sing at the top of my lungs while my dad smiles as he sings.

Eleven years later, I am suddenly brought out of my memory by the worst words I have ever heard.

“There’s nothing we can do. I’m so sorry.”

Calling 911 and different relatives to come help didn’t change the outcome of that night. I clung to the cold white countertop and traced the short lines of the grout between the tiles to keep from crying. That was it. My dad was dead. My aunt burst through the door and ran to me and my sister. I couldn’t keep it in any longer. He couldn’t be dead. I had just seen him a few hours ago before I left for dance. My life wasn’t supposed to change so much in just four hours.

My mom and aunt helped me to the couch where we waited. For family. For time to go back. For a change that would never come.

That was Wednesday. The next few days were a blur of picking out his suit, casket, plot, flowers, and finding a venue for the brunch that was to follow his funeral. I bottled up my emotions almost completely until Saturday. The day of his funeral. I went through the day feeling numb. The tears did not stop flowing. I had never cried in front of anyone who wasn’t immediate family, but that day I cried in front of a church full of over 150 people and gave no thought to the others in the room. My only thoughts were about my dad and how I hoped I put on waterproof mascara that morning.

I wanted to be the strong one. I always thought I would be. I’m the older sister. I was supposed to be the rock for my mom, who lost her husband of 18 years, and my sister, who was only 15 at the time. But when I looked at the closed casket, it was too final for me.

I would never hear his laugh again, have him help me with my math homework that never seemed to make sense until he put it in his “Dad Terms.” I would never practice math facts in the car to stay awake on a long car trip with him. He would never give me ridiculously hard math facts like 42,565 x 178 so I would have to pull out a pen and paper from the backseat to figure it out. I would never sing with him in the car again.

I also thought about the future events that he wouldn’t be a part of, but was always supposed to. He would miss both of his children’s graduations. He would never give me away or dance with me at my wedding. He would never see or play with his grandkids and teach them all the things that my grandfather taught me.

I had never thought about death before this, especially the death of the one man I could always count on. He was strong, resilient. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t an old man. He was 52. He wasn’t supposed to go yet. He is supposed to be here.

It’s been three years now since I heard those horrible words from the paramedics. I think of that memory every night before I go to sleep. I try everyday to live up to the standards he and my mom instilled in me since my childhood. I try to work hard and achieve everything he wanted me to accomplish. Since he’s died, I graduated high school with honors, enrolled at Niagara, and became a dance teacher. My sister and I are closer now than we were before and I know he’d be proud of us.

He always used to say “Keep dreaming Princess and reach for the moon. Even if you miss, you will land among the stars!” I just hope I’m reaching far enough to make him proud.