I wonder if my dad tasted a sweet lump of separation in 1981
when he realized it might be the last time he and I would spend an extended
period of time together in his professional environment.
It happened to me earlier this month. The ride to work, the walk into the office,
the agreement that my son and I would catch up to talk about the day’s
activities after we’d settled in, and the knowledge that he’d be around to
fulfill his duties as an intern were all in the past. In their places were the quiet emptiness of
the passenger seat, the absence of his soft footfalls up the stairwell from the
parking garage, and the fading memory of his bleary morning smile as he strode
off toward his cubicle around the corner and I to my office down the hall. As I settled into my routine, I found myself
recalling the many ways that he made my job easier this summer and how special
it was to have someone so close to me there to lend a hand wherever he could.
Seeing my son make a significant contribution in my
professional environment made his absence more acute. When he started, I was worried that I’d be
able to find enough work for him to do and that it would be interesting and
relevant to his studies. But before long
he was fully engaged with other young engineers in the office. He made friends easily. He demonstrated a knack for data analysis. And he picked up the rhythm of the office and
worked independently. Weeks before it
was time for him to head back to school I realized it was going to be a tough
adjustment back to office life without him.
With my dad it wasn’t a matter of working together, but
there was a longer period of time when I was a part of his professional life. All four years of my undergraduate education were
spent at the university where he was a professor. I’d drop by his office to say hello, we’d
grab a bite to eat at the student union, on weekends I might go home and ride
back to school with him on Monday, and best of all – I was able to enroll in
one of his classes.
At the end of those four years, I’m sure there was a period
of adjustment for him too. He probably
missed the rides to work together, the shared walks from the parking lot, and
the occasional lunches. I’m guessing
that he would have missed our classroom time as professor and student the most. As a person who loved the college experience
so intensely that he chose to never leave that setting, I’m certain that he
relished the opportunity to share the teaching experience with me in the
classroom. Maybe it hit him hardest
during the final hour of that last class when I was happily looking forward to
the next semester and he was anticipating seeing another student sitting in my
seat.
I wonder if he felt like I do now. I’d rather retain the ache of separation than
let it fade. It’s a good ache. It tells me that the memory of working with
my son is still fresh. Soon I know that
the details will blur as time passes and memories of other events accumulate. I’ll recall the broad strokes of working
together, but not the intricate details of specific projects, the subtle inside
jokes about co-workers, or the specifics of his accomplishments. As often happens, the generic memory will
likely be one of a happy and special time that we shared together.
Maybe the broad strokes of our time together at work will be
strong enough to elicit that lump in my throat years hence. In the case of my memories of life at the
university with my father the events of four years seem like a movie reel labeled,
“university days with Dad.” When I think back to those times, special
events pop up like still photos in my mind as the film spins along and I
attempt to focus on the details. For me,
the memories elicit nostalgic feelings of happy times past but not a lump in
the throat. Would that I could ask my
dad how memories of those times affect him all these years later, but that
opportunity was lost with his passing some 23 years ago now – a loss that still
elicits its own unique ache.
One never knows what events will have a lasting impact on
others. We don’t know how our words or actions
will be perceived or remembered or what influence they’ll have on others. What we do know is how we feel when we recall
significant events – either good or bad.
For me, memories of hurtful things said or done to a loved one can
elicit a lump in the throat similar to happy times. Whether associated with the memory of my
father’s passing, the return of my daughter around the world to Shanghai after
a visit home, hurtful things said to a loved one, or the conclusion of my son’s
internship, I think the poignant emotion that exhibits itself as a lump in my
throat is one of departure, distance, and separation.
