I Love You.

My father once wrote a note to me and signed off with, ‘We love you.’  I still have that note or at least the photo of it.  It was the closest he ever came to saying, ‘I love you,’ or so I thought.

We just weren’t a family that said I love you.  My father died in 1994 and very gradually the phrase began to seep into our vernacular many years after that.  Today most of us have said that to each other, but still not all.  

Today during yoga class a memory of my father surfaced.  It started as a memory of how I made $50 when I was about 18.  Our neighbor hooked me up with the opportunity.  There was a boy about my age who needed a ride from Scarsdale, New York to Long Island.  The family was very, very wealthy and the houses were mansions.  The boy seemed depressed and barely spoke during the ride.  As I was in this very relaxed state, lying on the floor in yoga class, I contemplated the whole experience.  Until this moment, the memory was just the boy, the $50 I earned, the drive and the mansions.

Today another aspect of this memory took front and center stage.  My father, who had six kids, chose to ride with me.  He let me drive.  He didn’t want the money.  So why was he with me? My father was a psychiatric social worker.  He was a humble, probably introverted person.  During the drive that day, he managed to engage that depressed boy in a little bit of conversation, in a way I certainly couldn’t have at the time.  My father seemed so brave taking that task on.  How wildly talented he was with these mad interpersonal skills!  That's what I was thinking at the time.  

Now, on the floor in yoga class, I contemplated what he did that day.  He took probably three to four hours out of his day.  Simple math tells me that he went W A Y over my allotted daddy/daughter time, being one of six. 

He was protecting me.  He gave me this time, not because I asked for it, but because he wanted to ensure my safety.  I wasn’t scared, it was our next-door-neighbor who set this up and she knew the people well, but I guess that wasn’t enough for my father to be sure I was safe.  This was before GPS telling you turn by turn how to get from point A to B, maybe he was worried I’d get lost.  Maybe he heard the description of this troubled boy from the neighbor, and his experience with troubled children as a psychiatric social worker caused him to err on the side of caution. 

I may not have heard I love you in words from him but I hear it loud and clear now from his actions that day.

Thank you dad,

I love you too.