In Memoriam

I have struggled immensely to find the words to describe the strange and twisted grief I felt when my dad died last November. I have attempted many times to put my thoughts about my father into words. Unraveling my memories of him—the person he was, the man he pretended to be, the dad I knew—is like trying to navigate some kind of ancient Celtic knot. This weekend, my family will have a memorial service to commemorate his life and to remember their loss. It is months later, and I am still wandering through the tangled knot of feelings I have about my father’s passing, observing my grief, considering what I can possibly say to honor this man.

On Saturday I will attend a service for my dad, among family members who will undoubtedly remember him differently than I. I didn't know the little boy who worried about his mom's feelings, afraid to leave her alone all day when he went to Kindergarten.  I don't have memories of the thoughtful young man who asked the nurse to cover his broken arm so his family wouldn't worry. I don't remember the little brother who kept his older siblings busy with his antics, although I occasionally saw him at his most vibrant, being the life of the party at family gatherings. On Saturday, I will go to a memorial to support my family as they commemorate their pleasant memories of a boy, a teenager, a young man I didn't know. I will also go to put to rest my memories of the man who was my father. I will mark the ache I have felt in my father’s absence; I will continue wading through oceans of grief. 

In describing those left behind when a loved one passes, obituaries often use the words “is survived by” to describe living relatives of the deceased. When it comes to reflecting on the man who was my father, what I will choose to memorialize is that I survived.

I survived the lies that led so many in, lies told so convincingly you simply had to believe they were true.  I think he was certain in his mind that the wild and crazy stories he told really happened. When I was a child, I believed that we were descendants of royalty, that my dad had once been a professional racecar driver and that he saved an entire ship from blowing up by stopping a nuclear missile with his bare hands. I can picture him sitting there, long legs in worn denim stretched out in front of him, head back and laughing as he recounted past glory days. It is easy to see why there was always someone over at our house, laughing and smoking and hearing him talk. Unfortunately, his lies weren’t always so harmless. He could be venomous, telling me my faults and hateful untruths about my existence. He could be manipulative, constructing a story that led to you doing what he wanted, even when you knew that he was wrong.

The storyteller has been laid to rest, and he is survived by a daughter who seeks to tell the truth.

I survived the neglect of a man who didn’t seem to know how to put his children’s needs before his own. My dad was inattentive, unaware of how to meet his own needs, let alone those of anyone else. When it suited him, he paid attention to others. As a four year old, I peeled the cellophane wrapper from a couple of slices of processed cheese, dug a few cocoa puffs from the bottom of a cereal box, and placed all of them on my brother’s high chair tray to feed him. My dad was home, but asleep, while my younger brother fussed and fretted in his high chair. During seasons when my father was unmarried and living alone, my brother and I were frequently responsible to meet our own physical needs. We learned to take care of ourselves and each other, finding food to eat, washing our own clothes or wearing what seemed reasonably clean. Beyond physical neglect, my father was also emotionally unavailable. He demanded perfection, but his requirements were capricious, and he rarely offered any kind of affirmation or praise.

The absent father has departed from this life, and he is survived by a daughter who believes her worth.

I survived the cycle of violence that my father perpetuated against the women in my family. The first time I remember seeing my dad’s cruelty I was very young. My mother had recently said she was leaving him, and grasping to regain his manipulative control, he tied a rope around her neck. I opened the door to their room and saw that horrific brutality. I can still recall the way my mother’s face looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face red and swollen. She looked down at the square of light on the carpet, I closed the door, and we never spoke of it again. His violent behavior returned one night years later at a friend’s house. I watched my dad wildly swinging a hammer in his right hand, waving it at his best friend, threatening to hit him, maybe to kill him.  To make this even more frightening, he was holding my baby sister in his left arm.  Soon after that, he threatened to kill our entire family and himself with a shotgun, standing and blocking the front door of our house when my stepmom decided she was through. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when his violence turned toward me. I was fourteen, and beginning to question his iron control, on the night when he bound my hands behind my back, pinned me to the floor, and struck me in the face.

The fighter has breathed his last, and is survived by a daughter who found safety and peace.

I survived, and I recognize that I suffered the loss of my dad a little at a time through the years. All these memories are but a glimpse into the reality that I never had a loving relationship with my dad. Where there should have been love, there was instead fear. For all of my childhood, I feared my dad.  As a teenager and young adult, I abhorred him.  Toward the end of his life, I pitied him.  And still, in all those seasons, I longed for him.  I longed for a father. I longed for a true and genuine apology that said I deserved more; I deserved better. There is a part of me that always hoped for a different resolution to our story. The lack of resolution caused me grief, brought me sorrow, and was my loss.

As I unravel this complex knot of emotions and memories, I see that the grief I now face is that my father is dead, and he never acknowledged the tremendous pain he caused. The ache in my chest and the lump in my throat are because now that he is really and truly gone, I have to be the one to tell the little girl that the apology she longs for isn’t coming.

I see you, little one.  You are strong.  You are brave.  You survived.

Somewhere inside me is the little girl who survived the lies, the berating and the demeaning. I carry within myself the child who endured being neglected and feeling unloved. I am the young woman who escaped being accused and bound and hit. I am still the little girl that wishes her daddy would stop yelling.  She wishes that he would lay down his gun, his hammer, his screaming and come into her room.  Hold her and tell her it’s going to be ok.  Say that he’s sorry, that he loves her and her brother and sister and they are all safe.

My father died, and he is survived by a daughter who has hope that the story isn’t truly over yet. I believe that his death is not the end. Now that my dad has been released from the bonds of this life, I hope that he has been freed from mental illness, from the disease that affected his mind and body and heart. I have hope that one day in eternity I will see my dad in his glorified body and his wholly right mind. I may recognize the thoughtful spirit of the boy who loved his mother, the brother who entertained his siblings, the man who cared for others. I will not be afraid, because we will be in the presence of Love, and perfect love casts out all fear. On that day, my dad will say that he is sorry.  And somehow, because of the great mystery of life and death and sacrifice and forgiveness and Love, I will believe his apology.  I will know with a deep understanding I cannot fathom that his apology is the truth, my forgiveness is the truth and our Love is the truth.

Kenneth Wayne Moore—my father the storyteller, the unfettered, the fighter—has passed from this life into eternity. He is survived by me—his daughter the truth-teller, the refuge seeker, the hopeful.