Dear Dad

Tim McGraw was serenading us through the speakers, small beads of sweat dripping down our foreheads and into the creases of our smiles as Mom and I talked with our mouths full of BBQ ribs. It was the night before I left for college, the car was packed, and we were having our final hurrah of summer together. 

Between bites of cornbread, she was imparting her wisdom to me at breakneck speed - just in case she had forgotten anything over the past eighteen years. 

“Remember, pour seltzer water into a red cup at a party. No one will ever know you’re not drinking.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going out, otherwise I won’t fall asleep. Feel free to tell me the next day after you’re home safe, and include ALL the details.”

“If the green eyed boy in your class wants to study with you, meet him in the library first.”

“Take pictures of everything - you’ll be shocked by how fast it goes.”

As a single mom, she was my everything. The softness and the strength, the nurturer and the provider. She had to learn fast and young, always saying she graduated from the School of Life after getting pregnant with me at the ripe age of 21 and only two semesters left to go. And here I was getting ready to leave her, her only child, the one and only built-in best friend. At least I was going to go finish what she started, attending the same college two hours away. 

My father was never in the picture. Her privacy was my protection, and I knew to stop asking questions after my 9th birthday rolled around and he didn’t come around the corner with a big gift box and a “my goodness, you’re so big!” As time went on my curiosities wandered from this elusive imaginary father to much more real problems of the time - which boy would ask me to the homecoming dance and how I could earn more money to fund my pottery classes. 

So we spent our time together watching Seventh Heaven, eating popcorn for dinner, and making up outrageous stories. Her oration was vivid, so I never knew how much she was fibbing. But if her tales were true then my Dad had monstrous ears, a tail and chased leprechauns. The only way I could tell that she had segued from fantasy into the past was by her voice, which would get just barely quieter, and her eyes, the normally steel blue turning into blurry waves. Memories of her youth were always relayed with a deep longing.

“Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I’ve never shown you!” she squealed. “It's been years since I’ve looked through it. I was waiting until you were old enough so that the pictures of the beer cans didn’t alarm you. Wait here.”

She hurried back inside the house, doors and cabinets clanging open and shut while I licked my plate clean. Moments later she returned, photo album in hand. 

“This, Mona, are my memories, although brief, of the best years of my life,” she winked, “before you of course.”

She passed it to me, the beige fabric yellowing at the corners. I could almost smell the shared dorm and cigarettes floating from the pages.

Girls in jean skirts getting ready for a night out, hugging the mascot, textbooks strewn across the lawn. Each frame crystallizing like a movie in Moms mind, and her monologue spilling out faster than she could talk. Scene after scene, I was captivated by her tales yet again. 

“And this was Janie, oh my god she was SO funny. I wonder where she --”

She stopped dead in her tracks. We were near the end of the book, and she clearly came across something. I clutched it and looked in the direction of her gaze, the object of her attention. 

There was Mom in full glam - blue eyeshadow, a perm, and red lips pulled wide into a laugh, arm draped around a guy in a forest green university cap, blonde mustache, and gold watch.

I had only seen a few photos of my Dad in my life, and stories were more prevalent when I was younger and my curiosity was peaking. But Mom did not want to reveal much; he worked in construction from what she knew and lived in upstate New York. Yet here he was, as close as I’ll ever be, and it was unmistakable. Our noses both jutted out a little over our lips, my hair just as thin and blonde, the way we both looked at Mom in admiration telling one of her stories. 

“Can I keep it?” I asked. There was no way she could say no to this forgotten photograph. I was getting old and deserved to at least have this memento. 

“Alright, honey,” giving me a wet kiss on the forehead, those red lips making their mark. 

This is it, I thought. I have you now. 

The final night before I flew from the nest, and the first time all three of us would spend together. 

Skeletons

I inhaled the first cool air of the fall sharply into my nostrils, finally able to wear my worn and tattered, yet beloved vintage sweatshirt. I was on my way to my Ceramics class, which had not surprisingly become my happy place on this big campus. I had met some nice people so far, but the aroma of the fresh paint, hum of the wheel and soft clay in my hands were my friends for life.

But today we got a notice that our regular room was out of service, so we had to meet in the backup room in the basement. To be honest I didn’t even know there was a basement, and I was a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to gaze out of the window on the day the leaves decided to make their descent to the Earth. 

I saw some of my classmates once I turned down the staircase, and followed them down the dark hall into the one room with fluorescent light poking out from under the door. 

“Alright potters, take your seat. Today we’re going to create prehistoric water jugs from the thirteenth century A.D.,” our quirky professor began. 

I sat my bag down and rolled up my sleeves. “Where are the aprons?” I asked my teacher’s assistant. She pointed towards the back of the room, where a limp cluster of splattered aprons hung off the neck of a broken anatomy skeleton. 

I headed towards it, imagining the long creaky bones spinning at the wheel, when a framed photo on the wall caught my attention. 

There he was - the same man in the photo I see every day hanging on the wall above my bed. It was the first thing I did when I set up my room, so it would be us three, everyday. When new friends inquire about the outdated couple, I calmly say, “That’s my Mom and Dad.” It's even started to roll off the tongue, no hesitation. It’s not lying, right?

Right in front of me was another grin of his, frozen in time. This time instead of his arm draped around my mom, it was hugging a large vase. It’s odd to think I’ve never seen his mouth move, his forehead wrinkle, his mustache grow. I’ve always wondered whether his eyes were quick to anger or quick to laugh; I like to think the latter. This was all I had of him though, little clues of him molded into place like a footprint on wet concrete. 

It was clear that he was holding this vase with pride, something he had probably spent hours refining and crafting until it was perfect in his eyes. And it showed; the outside was rustic red, a muted color similar to Moms lips. The bottom of it was a wide orb, the middle portion quickly narrowed to the width of being able to fit a singular stem, and the top curved outwards like a petal blossoming. 

Other classmates with their prized possessions were surrounding him. At the bottom of the photograph it read “University of Buffalo Pottery Contestants 1985, Winners Left to Right -- Abigail McPherson, Claire Keen, Devin Brake, Joseph Teller, Mike Winston, Mary Albert.” 

Holy crap. His NAME. I have HIS NAME! My mom did the best she could to conceal it from me; I took her last name and she always told me his first name was Mike. Mike? Michael? Short for Michelangelo? Trust me, I should be paid for being a detective when it comes to figuring out every last detail about my crush. I could tell you when his parents sold their house, his first job, and the name of his Great Aunt.. but let me tell you, Lori is even one step ahead of me when it comes to my protection. My searches have come up cold.

The remainder of class while I was throwing, my hands were on the pot but my mind was elsewhere. Did he sit in this same chair? Wear this apron? My head was spinning faster than my wheel. 

I don’t understand what she has to hide; I mean we look alike, and I clearly get my artistic abilities from him. Why couldn’t I possibly know who he is?

The time finally came to leave, something I’m normally not ready to do. Today was different. I was the last to head out, pretending to be extra tidy about my space and cleaning every last speck of mud off of my chair. Once I sensed the final footsteps fade, I quickly grabbed the framed photo and stuffed it into my backpack, zipper open and ready. Instead of taking a stroll in the freshly fallen leaves as I had intended, I headed straight to my room and pulled open my laptop so fast it nearly broke in half. 

One simple Google search - Mike Winston, Construction, University of Buffalo, New York - and I had him. Articles, LinkedIn profile and more frozen smiles all reflecting back to me. I found his website - he did in fact work in construction and live in upstate New York - and was actually very successful. Anyone could see why, his work was unique and grand, ranging from ski lodges to houses in the Hamptons. 

All this time I had envisioned him as Bob the Builder, with a construction hat and tattered overalls, a blue collar worker living day by day. 

But this... this was something else. He was the one probably telling Bob the Builder what to do. 

On the bottom of the page of his official website was the email michael@winstonconstruction.com. Within a few months I had gone from a few photographs to almost direct access. I had to shut my laptop and think. I thought he didn’t have a working phone my whole life, and now I learned he probably has two - a personal and business line. 

But then I thought about Mom. Right now, she was probably singing Carrie Underwood on her way back from the grocery store, stopping to get flowers on the way, blissfully unaware that I had uncovered her deepest secret. On the one hand I was furious with her. Why didn’t we get to live in one of his houses?! Why couldn’t I even drive a few hours north to be with him on the weekends?! 

Her heart was big enough for the both of us, though, and I knew she had good reason to keep him from me. Was she shunned from his family? Were they ever in love? Does he even know about me? I can’t imagine how hurt she would be if she found out.

I looked back down at the photograph on my desk, then up at the picture on my wall and lastly to his headshot flickering on my computer screen.  

As much as I love Mom, there are two sides to every story. It’s no longer enough to simply see his face stuck in a moment, imagining the words of encouragement and love I never got. I need to hear them, too. To see his mouth move and laugh and frown. He’s not the skeleton in the basement after all. 

I opened up Gmail and composed a new message. 

Dear Dad...