I was looking through photos on my laptop again last night, for the second time, trying to find photos of Dad I might have missed during my first scan through early Friday morning. We all left in such a rush that we forgot to gather up photos and memories of dad when we came over to the island.
I found some photos I missed from a couple years ago when we lived in Vancouver. He could only stay for one night that visit, and then had to leave in the morning. This was typical - as a hard worker, Dad was often busy and we'd lament that one could have time or money but rarely both at the same time. Looking at this photo I could see immense love in his eyes, and sadness that he had to leave. I distinctly remember knowing that he had to leave, and that it would have been unfair to ask him to stay longer.. but I desperately wanted more time with him. His grandkids wanted more time with him. He wanted more time. So all I said was "Dad, I wish you could stay," knowing that he had to go.
When I talked to Marny the night he died, I talked about how well Dad was aging and how loving, kind, and generous he was. She said her biggest regret was that he wouldn't be able to "enjoy the retirement he worked so hard for." I realized acutely that in the last few months, since we moved back up north to Hazelton, I'd been fantasizing about him coming and enjoying some of his retirement with us and the kids. I would envision him relaxed, not needing to leave so soon. I envisioned him leaned back in a chair, playing music and smiling at his grandkids as they played. I envisioned him standing beside us as we struggled to fix something or build something, wisely giving us tips and instruction pulled from his deep well of experience.
The last time I heard his voice was when Noah and I were rebuilding a near-WWII vintage tablesaw that Noah had selected from the dump. I'd gone as far as I could with the project - not very far - and couldn't decipher the wiring. I looked at Noah with a frustrated look and said "I don't know how this works. But you know who would know? Daddio! I'm going to call him right now." I took my cell out of my pocket, dialed Dad, and put him on speakerphone as he walked me through the engine rebuild. He was on the phone when we tested the motor and zoooom! It worked first try. I was wishing for many more of those patient, loving, caring coaching sessions.
Last night as I was looking at this photo - the one of him with his grandkids wrapped around him - and I remembered saying to him, knowing he had to go - "I wish you could stay." I know Dad you had to leave us, but Dad,
I really wish you could have stayed.
Love, Jacob
