I met with my dad today, after not having seen him for sixteen years.
It was awesome.
Technically, he's not my biological dad--my mother and I lived with him for less than 2 years. Regardless, he left a lasting, good impression...and I was lucky enough to see him today. (Prelude to the meeting here: grief-loss/topic42648.html)
My fiance and I were over there this evening...I'm so glad that he lives in an apartment building where people help him with medication. He lives far better than I expected. I'm a bit worried about his shaking and the cockroaches, but he has a roof, food, furniture, medication...and his mind is active and brilliant! We talked about books, philosophy and poetry. He put together the best meal he could possibly have laid out. Two bottles of champagne, shrimp and crab salad, strawberries, cantaloupe and lox. I couldn't help but wonder what percentage of his monthly pension he shelled out on welcoming us. It's not the money, of course--it's the effort.
We ate off of our old plates that I haven't seen since I was ten-turning-eleven. He still has my picture on his bookshelf. No matter what hellish drugs he was/was not on, he kept his library. He gave me a beautiful, three-volume dictionary to encourage me to hone my Russian language skills...and a wonderfully executed, pen-drawn self-portrait, signed "To my lovely daughter--Dad." I already framed it.
He loved my fiance. Tears welled up in my father's eyes when my fiance told him how well I've spoken of him through the years, and how much I had missed him.
We walked out of the apartment building together. I was on my father's arm. My fiance and I got in the car, and my father decided to take a walk. His hands were in his pockets, and there was a lightness in his 64-year-old step. We're having him over for dinner very, very soon.
I am one lucky, lucky, lucky girl.