A Baby Boy

I didn't shed a single tear when Daddy died. So different from when Mama. Then, I thought that I'd never stop crying. I was always scared of Daddy. His belt. The beatings that he could give. Without provocation, it seemed. So, I tried to be good. Did my homework. Did my chores. Stayed out of trouble. Stayed in my room and read. Stayed out of his way. Daddy worked hard. Even when he was a boy. Quit school in seventh grade to help his poppa farm. He took care of us, too. We always had food. And clothes. And shoes. Not many extras, though. Not much affection. Not much attention. One time when I was a little girl, he showed somebody--I don't remember who--something that I had written. He said, "She's got good handwriting." I don't think that I'll ever forget that compliment. Daddy got mad at me right before my Senior year. Didn't come to watch me cheer. Didn't attend my high school graduation. Didn't say a word to me for over a year. Then one spring not too long after that, he left Mama. Just walked out. On all of us. He could have been decent. Asked her for a divorce. She would have. But he didn't. He left. Scandalously. Broke Mama's heart. She forgave him, though. One time, I asked her, "Mama, how could you forgive him? After all of the awful things that he's done. How could you?" She said, "I learned a long time ago that me hating him wasn't hurting him a bit. But if I didn't let go of that hate and forgive him, it was gonna end up killing me." I guess I'm not like Mama. I mean he didn't know my children. He didn't even recognize me when he saw me at my uncle's funeral. I said, "Hello, Daddy." He just looked at me. With this astonished expression on his face. He said, "Well, who are you?" How could he not know me? Not know that the blue eyes looking straight into his were his own. But when he got sick, I tried to help him. Cleaned his house. Took him food. Drove him into Montgomery to the cancer center. That's what Mama wanted me to do. So, I did. During that time, Daddy told me. "I love you." I'd never heard those words from him before. I told him that I loved him. I meant it. I just didn't feel it. Then his other family--I use that word loosely-- came back into the picture. My brothers and sisters and I left him alone. At his request. Daddy spent the last two years of his life in a nursing home. I visited him once. To tell him about Mama. He didn't seem to care much. Made me angry. My cousin preached Daddy's funeral. Talked honestly about Daddy and our family and how things were. Talked about how my daddy while not the youngest child was the youngest of his brothers. And on this day we were sending a baby boy home to heaven. Something about that image of Daddy being a baby boy. Being somebody's baby boy. His mother's. God's. Moved me. But not to tears. Not pretty. Just true. Maybe someday. Sweet dreams, Deb