Birth Father

The memories I have of my birth father before I grew up could be easily counted using fewer fingers than I have. He was around until I was 6, when he moved away and only called twice that I know of. Somehow, though I have several scattered memories with the rest of my family, I only have the slightest glimpses, as if peeking through the curtain of time and finding it hard to push past and see beyond the dark, heavy drapes.

My favorite memory of my dad was of him sitting with me on a bench at Six Flags Great Adventure park when I was too scared to enter the dark ride. I remember that for other rides, I was content to wait alone on the bench and to let them go through the other rides alone. My two older brothers remembered the rides. I remembered his kindness to me in that moment.

A random other memory pops up. The Tunnel of Love was exciting to me. Everything else was terrifying. No, thank you.

Papi – My Maternal Grandfather

My grandfather was the only father that really fulfilled that role in my life. He was there for me, always on my side, and he prayed for me every day. I could walk into the room at the same time every evening and find him on his knees. He taught me to pray a set prayer, mentioning each family member by name in the order that they appeared on the family tree. He was methodical, reliable, and stoic. If ever a child needed a stable, unchanging influence in her life, it was me.

I honor him for that.