I say my goodbye to Memphis after lunch. The reason for this trip is to visit my dad and it’s time that I head that way. During the ten-minute drive from the Armstrong farm to the cemetery, I contemplate how far I live now from my dad and how visiting once a year is not enough.
“Hey dad,” I say out loud. “I’m here like I promised.” I kneel next to his headstone. I brush the grass shavings and dust from the top and the engraved lettering of his light-gray granite stone. My mind floods with all I need to say. I wonder with him in heaven does he already know everything that happened to me in the last twelve months. “I love you.” My words fail to tell him how much I miss and need him. I continue as if he isn’t on my shoulder each and every day. I talk of Hamilton and Liberty, my classes, and Alma. I express my constant worry about my mother and how far she fell without him around. I share my plans for the upcoming year for my career, for Liberty, and for Hamilton. After several quiet moments, I promise I’ll bring Liberty with me next time and say goodbye.
My phone buzzes as I walk from his headstone to my car at the edge of the cemetery.
Mother: I hope you miss your father today as much as I do
I freeze at her texted words. Is she guilting me? Is she sober enough to remember I visit his grave every year on Father’s Day? She was rarely sober when I lived at home, so I doubt she is ever sober now that I am gone.
Me: I visit his grave EVERY Father’s Day
Me: Hope you find 1 hour a year to visit him
Me: without alcohol in your system
Mother: year at college didn’t soften your heart
Me: I’ve texted you & left voicemail for you every week for 52 weeks
Me: Not a word from you
Me: Until you are sober DON’T text me
Mother: after everything I have done for you
Me: I hope you are referring to the time before dad’s death
Me: because the last 6 years I’ve been without a dad & a mom
I set my phone on Do Not Disturb mode. Now I can ignore her texts. I’m fuming—she has some nerve. The fact that she texted me at all shocks me. I assume she has at least half a bottle in her by now at home since the bars can’t open on Sunday in Athens. For that matter, I’m surprised she even knows it is Father’s Day.
I want to text her that she has a granddaughter and if she sobers up she can visit me, or I will visit her, but I’ve not the energy to hope anymore. I’ve been burned too many times. In the past I hoped, and I prayed, then I waited for her to be the mom I needed. She’s perpetually on my prayer list. I’ve shared information and resources to help yet it is always me without her.
In my virtual Al-anon and Alateen meetings, I’ve learned I can’t help her until she is ready to accept help. I’ve learned her actions don’t reflect upon me and others don’t hold me accountable for her actions. I’ve met so many others online in my same situation. We share our stories, our hopes, our prayers, and our reality that our own life is all that we may control.
With my phone no longer alerting me to her texts or calls, I sit in my car for a moment. I don’t want to leave this way. I can’t allow her to taint this visit, so I return to my dad’s grave. Sitting in the green grass, I rest my right hand on his name.
“Dad, I miss you. I wish you were here. I know it’s not your fault mother has fallen so far, but if you were here she might still be the mom I need. I have so many things in my life that I wish you were here to help me with. Liberty grows so fast. I know you would spoil her rotten. She would love visits to papa’s farm—you would have a little helper at the hog lot and on your tractors.” I wipe my tears from my chin. “She’d wrap you around her little finger.”
I continue to wipe tears from my cheeks as I sit quietly for several long minutes. When my phone rings interrupting the silence, I realize it’s one of the ten people I have on my favorites list, otherwise it wouldn’t ring while on Do Not Disturb mode. A sad smile slides on my face when I see Hamilton’s name and picture for this FaceTime call.
“Hello.”
“Are you still in…” his words trail off. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Visiting your dad, I wish I was there with you right now.” I’m not sure if it is the tears and my red puffy eyes, or the cemetery in the background that tipped him off. “We have a rain out and I was attempting to call you before you left Athens.”
“Sorry about your game and yes you caught me just in time.” I wipe my face on my sleeve trying to look less pathetic. “Did you need something?”
Hamilton’s face falls a bit. “I thought if I caught you, I could ask you to do a favor for me.”
“I can try.” I begin walking back towards my car as we chat.
“Do you need to hurry back to Columbia?”
“Nope. Come on, it’s me, just tell me what you need already.” The more he avoids asking the favor, the more worried I become. Thoughts of him coming to Athens to see me, asking me to come to Chicago to visit him, plus many others swirl in my mind.
“Could you walk me over to my dad’s headstone? I’d like to spend a moment with him for Father’s Day, too.”
I freeze. It’s at this moment that I realize this is actually Hamilton’s first Father’s Day and he doesn’t even know it. Liberty should be spending the day with her daddy. We could have bought him a gift or two and a sweet card. My heart weighs a ton in my chest. This is yet another milestone I deprive them of.
“Mady…” Hamilton’s voice draws me back.
“Yeah, sure, no problem.” I change my direction walking towards Mr. Armstrong’s final resting place on the opposite end of the cemetery from my dad’s. “I’m glad you called when you did. A few more minutes and I would have already been speeding down the highway.”
At the graveside, I turn the camera view from me to the headstone. I remove my shoes and prop my cell phone between them angled up with a full view of his father’s stone. I peek into the camera’s line of sight. “I propped the camera up. I’ll take a walk for a few minutes so the two of you can have some time alone. I’ll announce myself when I walk back.” I smile into the camera hoping Hamilton knows I’ll still be with him in my thoughts as I take my walk.
“Thank you.”
I look at my Fitbit on my wrist noting it is 2:15 p.m. I wander down and back through several rows of headstones. I recognize many common last names of Athens as I read each monument. I keep track of the birthdates trying to see what the oldest date I might find is. The stones here are not as old as the ones in the little cemetery near our farm that Hamilton and I spent many hours in during high school.
As I return to my phone fifteen minutes later, I announce here I come a few times as I approach. I’m caught off guard to find Hamilton is no longer connected. I wonder why he hung up or if he was disconnected. As I slip my shoes back on, I notice he texted me.
Hamilton: TY(thank you)
Hamilton: Call when you are on highway
Hamilton: I’ll keep U company for part of drive
Me: Ok, call in about 10 min
Before leaving Athens, I stop for gas and a few snacks then pull onto the highway pointed back towards Liberty, Alma, and my other life in Columbia.
“Libby,” Alma plays. “Look at my tractor.” Alma pushes the large toy with soft edges, resembling a tractor forward on the blanket.
My mind drifts to my times helping my dad on the farm. Liberty would enjoy riding on my dad’s lap as he drove the tractors. I envision her sitting alone in the seat while he climbed down to open the gates to the pasture. Dad would help her ride a goat and I’m sure he would buy her a pony when she was old enough. My mind easily flips through the many farm activities my dad would enjoy sharing with his granddaughter.
I fight back my tears at the interactions Liberty will never have with my dad. Come to think of it, Libby will never have a grandfather as Hamilton’s father also passed away. I lost all four of my grandparents before I turned five. With the current situation with my mother, Alma and someday soon Memphis will be the only grandparents she will know.
Of course, now thoughts of my mother are all I can think of. Although I think of her from time-to-time, I don’t worry about her every day. I love my new life free of a daily reminder of the danger my mother carries with her. I have a routine. It’s smooth. I do not miss the perpetual out-of-control feeling I once carried around while living with my alcoholic mother. I’ve resigned to the fact she is who she is and lives the life she chooses. I have removed myself, moved on as best I can, and have Troy to inform me when anything goes wrong. It’s all I can handle and enjoy my life as I deserve to.