Well, it's been 5 years to the day since my dad passed away. I know that celebrating someone's death-aversery seems sort of morbid and wrong but to tell the truth, I can't help it. The death of Jay Monahan has been one of the most significantly painful things I have ever gone through. It just seems sort of impossible. I know I have said this before, but my dad and I were not very close. We hadn't lived together since I was 5 years old and our visits since then had been few and far between. However, let's face it, he's my dad. Despite all of his flaws, and there were many, I knew he loved me unconditionally. I knew that deep down he thought the best thing he could do for me was stay away. He was always proud of me, though. He genuinely thought I was interesting and worthy, something that no other man in my entire life has ever thought. He would call me in the middle of the night (he was famous for these midnight calls) just to chat and see how I was. He would always ask about the weather and even start explaining what the weather man was saying moment to moment wherever I was. I used to find this incredibly annoying. Hello! I know what the weather is like in Los Angeles. I'm standing in it! He wouldn't pay any attention that that, though and just keep letting me know about the massive heat wave we had heading our way.
These little tidbits of phone conversations and short visits are really all I have to remember him by. However, since he died, I feel like I have spoken with him more often. We had him cremated and split into three parts. One went with his Satan witch of a girlfriend who promised to sprinkle him in the Atlantic along with a case of Busch beer. Let's face it, he would totally dig that. One went with my grandmother who promised to give him a proper Christian burial alongside his father and brother. I also think he would have loved and valued this as well. And 1/3 of my dad was put in an envelope and handed to me. I too had plans to sprinkle him at sea. I took him to Hawaii and went para-sailing with my boyfriend at the time. It was a very special moment for me filled with all the sadness and humor that Jay would have appreciated. First of all, you can't spread ashes without a permit but the guys who drive the boat aren't necessarily going to throw you off if they catch you. So, with this in mind, I took a hefty part of my third of ashes and threw them in a plastic bag stuffed in the shirt of my swim suit. At the top of the pull when I could see all of the Oahu coast my mom and dad had fallen in love on, I released him. It was sad and beautiful and especially humorous when the para-sail guy handed me a picture of my boyfriend and I with a small gray cloud underneath us. That was really a great letting go experience and maybe I should have taken the entire third with me. I just, well, I couldn't let go. I wasn't ready. Over the past couple years I have kept the other part of him in a lunchbox I decoupaged myself. It's actually a much more attractive urn then the piece of crap thing Debbie (evil aforementioned girlfriend) picked out. Each year on his birthday or his death-aversery I take a little bit of him somewhere I think he would like and sprinkle him. I have taken him to the top of the Big Dipper and the boardwalk, out for a swim on the West Cliff of Santa Cruz, to the roof of my old apartment building in SF where I could see both bridges and the bay and Waimeia park where he and my mother were married. The rest of the time he sits in the box listening to me rattle on the way he used to about one thing or another. It really has brought us closer and I have to say he is a much better listener now then he used to be.
So, I really don't know what to do at this point. I see more and more of my dad in my face and mannerisms these days. I recognize a twist of the cheek or tilt of the eyebrow as his, and frighten and delight myself. I see his need for excitement and buzz in me at times as well as his self-loathing desire to escape others in order to help them grow. I cry wishing I could just hear his voice or even a recording of it just one more time and every once in a while when I have had too much to drink I hear it in myself. I do carry a part of him with me and it has nothing to do with the ashes so why can't I let them go? Am I punishing him for not being around while I was growing up? Or maybe I am trying to convince him that he should have stayed, leaving didn't help at all. Or maybe I just miss him and wish he would call in the middle of the night and tell me about the fog here in SF. I don't know.
