“Beyond the door there’s peace I’m sure“- Eric Clapton — Tears In Heaven
I used to go to Northern California every summer to visit my grandma (my dad's mom), from the time I was 4 years old until the year she passed away in 1994. She had this massive house that sat on a hillside and overlooked the Bay, from the front of the house you could see the Bay Bridge, and her front yard was filled with hydrangea and lemon trees. If heaven on earth has a smell it was her front yard.
It was there in her front yard in the summer of 1992 that I sang for my dad for the first time. I was 12 years old and I was obsessed with En Vogue, New Edition, and Eric Clapton. The particular day I’m remembering I had those tapes with me, I’d gone to buy a Walkman that morning, and my dad had come by to see me around noon. I always got nervous about seeing him because I never knew who he’d be when he showed up.
On this particular day he was mostly sober from what I could see and we talked about music. He was shocked by my obsession with Eric Clapton, I remember feeling happy that he approved so much of my music choice. We finally had something in common. I told him I was in choir and that was when he asked me to sing. I didn’t hesitate. I put my headphones in, popped in Eric Clapton, and belted out Tears in Heaven right there in the front yard in the middle of lemon trees and blue hydrangea. It was the only time I ever saw my dad cry. He hugged me tight and told me I was great.
It was the only time he ever did that.
I’d lose him 3 years later.
I saw him one more time before he died. He came to visit me in Las Vegas in 1994, it was right after my grandma had passed away. I was 15 and it was shortly after I’d started high school. We went to see Siegfried and Roy, the famous magicians show with the white tigers on the Las Vegas strip. The only thing I remember about that show was how shitfaced my dad got. Luckily my uncle was there and he drove me home. My dad tried to apologize afterwards, but I was extremely upset. He wrote me letters and sent me a book in January 1995, the book was called “The Magic of Drumming” by Mickey Hart of The Grateful Dead. It was his attempt to make peace.
We finally spoke in February 1995, 4 months after I’d seen him, he was in good spirits and we talked of a future where we’d go camping in the Redwoods and drive along the coast. When we hung up I was so filled with hope that I finally would have a relationship with my dad. I’d finally know him.
Ten months later I received a call from my grandpa telling me that my dad was in the hospital, his addiction finally caught up with him- he had liver and kidney failure and wasn’t doing so well. I told my grandpa to please tell my dad I loved him and hoped he got better soon. A few days later my dad called me for my birthday, December 17th, he was still in the hospital, but said he was okay and would be home soon. I cried and told him he had to get better, we had a camping trip to do soon, he laughed and said he’d be alright. We said I love you and that was it.
He died on Christmas Eve 1995, sitting in his recliner surrounded by all his medication and the beer he’d been given by his wife. I wasn’t told until the day after Christmas. I was told that day because everyone saw how happy I was on Christmas and they didn’t want to ruin it. My Christmas felt like a farce- everyone knew but me. I very vividly remember saying at least he’s at peace now, he would have no more pain.
I still haven’t made it to the Redwoods. Mustering up the braveness to do the trip is on my to-do list.
I do believe that there must be some sort of peace somewhere for him, at least I hope.
The truth about grief is it never goes away. Ever. It just becomes less. Mostly it rides around with you like a specter and pokes it's head out at inconvenient times. And you’re left to put on the brave face and confront it, which sometimes brings its own peace.
I miss him all the time and particularly on Father's Day. Mostly I miss what might have been.
(Added this additional piece- something I wrote 3 years ago and I felt it should be included)
Father’s Day and I can’t help but miss you dad. I miss what was never there, such an odd place to live in- the ether of what never was or could be.
I have these pictures of you... these snapshots that contain memories... and I feel like I’m looking at a stranger, not just you, but me too. I remember thinking that once I turned 18 I’d find you and spend time with you and finally I’d get to know you, my infamous father Billy Bongos..
I never got the chance. I learn about you now through the people who knew you, I have heard about how magical you were, how kind hearted you were, how funny, how great a friend you were, how good of a brother you could be...I learned all these things, and yet you’re one of the greatest mysteries of my life. And yet you are part of me. Which means parts of me feel like a mystery sometimes.
My last memory of you is a phone call for my 17th birthday, you were sick and I think you knew you weren’t going to make it this time. You wished me a happy birthday & I told you to please get better so that we could go to the Redwood forest on the camping trip you said you’d wanted to take me on. Your voice was tired and raspy and I tried to sound cheerful even though I was afraid. I don’t remember ending the phone call, I don’t remember if we said I love you. I do remember feeling sad and worried. A week later you were gone.
I have been chasing your ghost for decades. And missing the man who nicknamed me Boogie Child, who I always wondered, should the alcohol and drugs not taken you, what kind of dad would you have gotten to be.
I don’t know how to celebrate Father’s Day, I’ve never had the chance.
Thank you for being here dear reader friends. I hope you're okay wherever you are.
Mesa, with the courage and grace you show here, I imagine you’ll see the redwoods soon. Thinking of you on this complicated day.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful, complicated Dad with us, Mesa. These stories are so raw and honest- it's an honor to be trusted with them. ❤️🩹