shattered-small title

Dad died in the winter of ’62, just before he was to take office as District Attorney. Mom was playing Bridge with friends at the Country Chicken restaurant, but some of us eight kids were home with him: Stevie, only five, and Seth, six years older than me. At eight, I didn’t understand Daddy’s unusually short temper, restless as he paced between the living room and his office in the small adjoining room. I lay on the scratchy couch, its tiny bumps of fabric sticking into my skin. Stevie played with trucks on the floor.

“Daddy, can we go outside?” I dared ask.

I knew even at that young age that this wasn’t the same Daddy who would smile happily at me when I followed him around the yard like a shadow on his days off.

“No,” he snapped back. “Turn down the TV.”

He went back into his office, this time closing the door behind him. Quieted by his anger, wondering why he seemed so mad at me, I combed my dolly’s blond, silken hair while Seth turned the volume down. We heard a terrible thud behind the office door. Seth ran to the door and yanked it open. Daddy lay very still on his back. Seth went quickly to him, kneeled, and placed his own mouth over Daddy’s, trying to push breath into his lungs. A reflux of vomit went from Daddy into Seth. Seth rushed to the kitchen sink and splashed it out of his mouth.

I stood in a stupor, Stevie nearby. Daddy lay unmoving. What was going on? I stood frozen in one spot, watching the whirling lights outside and the seemingly sudden presence of so many people. Daddy left with the whirling lights, taken by stretcher. He would never return, but Stevie and I didn’t know that when a family friend, Mrs. Nielson, took us into the back bedroom and told us to pray. On our knees, we put our hearts into it, believing God would make it right.

Scared and confused, I dutifully prayed, “Bring Daddy back. Bring Daddy back.”

Later we were allowed to go into the living room after Mommy returned. We sat by her side as she held our hands, but she seemed distant. Daddy lay flat the next time I saw him, so still, waxy, and pale. Approaching the casket slowly, I studied his face. It looked curiously pocketed with dips and curves of skin, not the smiling lively face I had known and cuddled up against with warmth and love. I had been warned before stepping up to the coffin about what I would be seeing.

“Your Daddy’s sleeping,” an adult voice whispered, her lips brushing my ear in a hushed voice. But I knew it was more than that, something sick and queer. Someone sleeping ought to move. Someone sleeping would come back home to us.

“Now I lay me down to sleep,” Stevie and I prayed, kneeling beside his bed, our bedtime ritual. Our nightly mantra with clasped hands included blessings for Mommy, each of the seven brothers, the dog Sneakers, and most importantly Daddy who watched over us from heaven. Then came our song together, “Silent Night.” Mommy seemed hard to reach, far away, so I comforted Stevie, reassuring him that Daddy remained close by even though we couldn’t see him.

Stevie asked, “Where is Daddy?”

Mommy didn’t answer, but I always did, “He’s in heaven watching over us.” I smiled, adding, “He’s not gone, he’s everywhere around us.”

I needed to believe it as much he did, yet the feeling a part of me had been severed never left. Goodbyes of any kind became grief- colored endings. I would experience grief in a million different ways because I did not fully grieve Daddy’s passing, comforting my little brother instead. But maybe what came next obliterated all the rest.

21 thoughts on “CHAPTER 1: DADDY

  1. Beautiful Patricia! So sorry for the loss of your father at such a young age and the grieving that you didn’t experience because you were looking after your mother and brother’s feelings and even more sorry for everything that came after.


    1. I didn’t know what to say back to you. I have a hard time with kind remarks.
      Later I thought about it. Memories fade with time, but though over 50 yeas ago, this one remains vivid


  2. …your young child heart…so sensitive and nurturing your brother and your Mom…I think as women we carry that seed inside of us from the moment we are born…but it seems we have to learn to also be gentle with ourselves…I wonder how that gets lost? How we can keep on giving, and not give to ourselves?
    at least…that was my experience also…
    very heartfelt, beautiful honest chapter 1!

    Liked by 1 person

      1. It was that shared experience and the abuse that overshadowed it all, the abandonment of our mothers to their own grief. The similarities goes beyond what I could say. I wept uncontrollably from your kindness. Like you, that Iist could have been equally as long if it had spoken of the abusers, the abandonments, betrayals… no words can speak. Yes it all makes me spin as I see it has you. You cannot measure pain or sorrow. And like you, I feel helpless in the face of all your pain. Thank you for your kindness. I have been longing for that from those I love, I had no idea a perfect stranger’s kindness could mean or do so much. Thank you! No one has acknowledged even the existance of my pain in the way that you have. And it is those shared experiences that lets me know without a doubt you get it. Thank you again!


  3. I am riveted by the content and formatting of your writing, the topic is so deep, its double deep. You have a profound way with your words. Yours truly, The Renegade writer.


  4. Grace, it seems the deepest pain of our lives bring out form us our greatest creativity. Thank you for courageously sharing your story in such captivating style, and adding further life with your photography. Both are beautiful expressions.

    I was quite taken aback by a phrase you shared, “Now I lay me down to sleep,” as this is the subtitle of my book that shares my own childhood and early adulthood story of intensive pain, my reasoning to make sense of it all, and the faith that has empowered me. Now, years later, those harsh choices by another human against me still make no sense, but the results of those acts dug in me a deep well of faith–that I see in you–and filled it with staunch believe that Abba, the perfect daddy of love and grace, does not waste our pain, and with the belief that while humans make evil choices, God is ever at work to transform those ashes into an exquisite portrait of unprecedented beauty. The portrait of YOUR spirit that He is masterfully painting is breathtaking. He doesn’t make junk, mistakes, or spare parts . . . , He made you for a perfect purpose that defies all evil acts and your pain. I deeply admire you and I’m cheering you on to be all that Abba created you to be.



    Liked by 1 person

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