Have You Ever Danced With Your Father?/ A Woman's Perspective

My father and I shared the same name. Our resemblance to each other was uncanny. I learned more about him during his eulogy than I knew during his lifetime. As I sat in the front pew of the tiny chapel on the Fort Sill Army Base, my tears freely flowed because now there would never be a chance to experience the many joys of being his daughter that my heart had always yearned for.

He entered the Army the same year I was born. Perfect timing huh? And yes, I did ask him the obvious question. He was actually in Korea at the time of my birth. He decided to make the military his career. He spent most of his service time in Germany.
When he returned to the states and came home to visit his parents, he would visit me also. I never knew when he would show up. It was not uncommon for him to come to my school and I would be called to the office where he would be waiting. I was an extremely shy child, so he never knew how excited I was to see him. My excitement would last for weeks. Unfortunately, years separated his visits. We never said much, but our personalities were so similar, they were 'comfortable' silences between us. He was always neat and well dressed. He always had on a watch and the first gift he ever gave me was a watch sent from Germany. I was eight years old, and yes,,I love watches. He liked Volkswagen's and Buick's. The first car I owned (with my then husband) was a 1971 red Super Beetle. My father owned a 1961 grey Bug he bought while in Germany.

Somewhere between the age of 10 and 11 my relationship with my father changed. This particular night, I had just told Mama that I wanted a pineapple malt from Dairy Queen. Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. It was my father. I was of course glad to see him, but when he asked if I wanted to go and get something to eat, I vehemently said,,,No!  Mama, ( my aunt who raised me) who was surprisingly fond of my father, quickly told him that I had just said that I wanted a malt. He surprised all of us by almost grabbing me by both my arms and declaring that,," You did not have to afraid of me because I am your Daddy!"  All of my shyness and the fear that I did not know I had, simply went away,,never to return. We went to Dairy Queen and I enjoyed the best pineapple malt I ever had.

The year I turned 12, one of my father's friends came to my house to tell me that my father had gotten married. His friend said the he was afraid to tell me. I have never understood why. Perhaps he knew how sad I would be. Because, I was extremely sad. I felt as if I had just found him and now he would have a real family possibly with children,,,and once again I would be simply an option in his life; not a priority.

You see, even as a child, I knew that my parents did not have the emotional responsibility of my care. I was not a priority for either of them. By age six, I had accepted this fact, and was able to understand that I was right where I was supposed to be.
Knowing this, did not change the fact that I loved my father. I was fascinated by the mystique that seemed to surround him.
Soon after his marriage, he and his wife had a daughter.
Of course I was praying for a boy..

He remained a distant part of my life. My children were his only grandchildren, but the time they spent together was not enough to form a real relationship. They did seem to enjoy the time they had.
The year (several months) before he died, I woke up one morning needing to talk to him. I called and we talked long enough to sorta catch up. During the conversation he told me he had a doctor's appointment the following day. I fussed at him about his smoking, and he told me had stopped. He was taken directly from the doctor's appointment to the hospital. He had become critically ill.

By the time I reached Oklahoma, he was in a semi-conscious state. For the first time, I looked at this man who was my father. I could finally see how much we looked alike. As I gently rubbed his head, I could feel his hair texture that was the same as mine. I always wondered why my hands were so different. As I held his hand, I found the answer. I was able to talk to him and tell him just who he had always been to me. I can only pray that he heard me.

A month or so later, on the return trip home from his funeral, I heard Luther's song 'Dance With My Father' for the first time.
Once again my tears flowed freely as I was faced with one more experience I would never have..

I would never have the opportunity to dance with my father.
What a joy that would have been.