It's been twenty-three years since my dad died.  I used to think that he died on Valentine's day so that mum would never date again but now I think, maybe he died on Valentine's day because he loved her so much.  I hope so.

My dad was a very difficult man.  He was angry and built a wall around himself that only mum was allowed to pass through.  I think/know he had undiagnosed depression.  He grew up in extreme poverty with an alcoholic mother and went off to war when he was nineteen years old.  I learned many years later, from my auntie, that his best friend was killed beside him during the war.  He also told me once that he thought he would go to hell for things he had done during the war.  I told him god doesn't work like that.  His brother suffered from schizophrenia and ended up on the streets of Vancouver where he died in the seventies, beaten to death.  His was a tough family that came from the mines and poverty and addiction.

I was born when my sisters were almost sixteen.  There were five dead babies between me and my sisters.  A counselor once told me that I must have been so precious to my parents because of that.  Maybe I was, but that's not how it felt.  Looking back at old photos though I see my dad holding me and I hope I was precious to him.  I hope he let me pass through the wall when I was little.  I hope I gave him some comfort.

I didn't grow up poor but I didn't grow up well off either, working class I guess you would say.  My dad always worked at least two jobs while I was growing up, sometimes three jobs.  We never went without and always had a roof over our heads.  That was his way of showing us love; I just didn't realize that when I was young.  The hardest part about growing up with him as a father was his rage and his anger.  He never once hit me but he would shake with anger and that scared me enough.  He also sped off in his car when that happened.  I think now that he left because he was afraid of what he might do.  He was afraid of his own anger, just as I am afraid of mine.

When he left mum would always start crying and wringing her hands.  Dad never left for long and he always came home.  As I grew older I realized that dad could never leave us because he couldn't actually take care of himself.  My mum was his anchor and his support.  She saved him and he knew that.  There was also real love between them, although it was hard to see, especially as a child.

I wish I had the chance to talk to him again, with love, with understanding, with compassion.  I understand too much, too late.  But isn't that how life so often is?  We live it forward but only understand it backwards and maybe that's why grandparents are so important to children.