The Space Between, and After

David Ward, June 18, 1945 - August 18, 2018

I have written already about my father, but it isn’t even close to everything within the scope of  that dash between the dates.

I could write about him trying to teach me to ride a bike, but I couldn’t overcome my own fear of falling.  He didn’t want to give up, but I made him.


I could write about his Jeep, with the zip-up windows and how he pretended to let me drive, parked in the yard, going nowhere.

I could write about him placing worms in my hand, to feed to the chickens.

I could write about metal lunchboxes and chopped ham sandwiches for lunch and Thermoses of hot coffee and coal dust under his fingernails.

I could write about cracking black walnuts on the back porch.

I could write about white Hanes T-shirts and Wrangler jeans.

I could write about how his hair was black before it turned silver, his mustache red before it turned gray.

I could write about the belt, but only sideways and without looking straight at it.

I could write about how he helped AJ frame the walls for the basement, how my husband’s careful tap tap tap tap tap tap against the nails was replaced by, at most, three THWACK THWACK THWACKs.

I could write about his suit at my wedding, and no father/daughter dance because neither of us wanted it.

I could write about how it took 14 days for him to die, and how only 8 days of it were enough cruelty to break his son.

I could write about seeing him when he came back from the hospital, when his back was broken in the mines, lying on the bed with a board under the mattress.

I could write about how he and Mom drove me to college, how he asked for directions to Harper Memorial Library, but the passerbys couldn’t understand.  Herper Memorl Liburry.

I could write about canasta games and watching his hands shuffle well-worn cards.

I could write about knowing, last Thanksgiving, it was probably the last time he would see me, and recognize me, how he wandered the house during the night looking for me.

I could write about how AJ always knew I was on the phone with my father, because he could hear my own accent come back.

I could write about him holding the Older as a baby, looking at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he had seen since Bethany came home the first time.

I could write about him playing trucks with the Younger.

I could write about him teaching me to drive when my mother’s nerves weren’t up to it.

I could write about I could write about I could write about … 

It would never fill the space between those dates.
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An hour after my father died, I stopped for ice cream.  The Younger and I got milkshakes.  Vanilla, my dad's favorite.

We listened to Johnny Cash on the drive home.  My daughter held my hand when Wayfaring Stranger started to play.

We begin to fill the space after.