The first time I ever saw my father cry was when I was seven years old. He was on a large screen, suspended from a series of metal poles. Me and thousands of other people formed a sea of blue, grey, and silver encasing a field of green. A roaring ocean of clapping hands and ringing cowbells. I was standing on my seat, peering up at the screen, my heart beating loud with pride. I had clapped until my little hands bore red. It was a dream. My daddy was my hero. I could see his face in perfect focus; the shadow of the hair on his face, his verdant eyes, his crooked-lip smile. The hard, bright white lights caught the top of his bald head as he bowed to receive his medal. As his face appeared again, I could tell by the swelling around his eyes that he had been crying and was about to yet.
That sight, the beholdment of that moment, watching my father accomplish something that was a lifelong goal, pushed my heart into my throat. That was my father. My father. He had spent the last 7 years of his life coaching and leading, leading and coaching to that very moment. Doing something he truly loved, and doing it until it led him to one of the things in his life he would forever be proud of. I knew it was something he loved, too. I could see it in his smile every day when he would come home. I could sense it in his arms as I’d jump into them under the stadium lights after another win.
The lights caught his wedding ring as he pushed his glasses up. That wedding ring had always seemed to demand attention. I used to always tell him, “Daddy, I like silver better. Why did mommy want gold?”
He would always reply, “Loo, I picked gold. I like it.” There was something about the way he said that. Reassuring, but tired. He always did do his best to make my mother out to be stable and healthy. But it was making him tired.
The second time I saw my father cry was two months after my mother got arrested. It was the first time he entered the house I had lived in for a year alone with her. It was his house, the house he had bought with his own money. He had put so much work, so much love into that house.
When we bought it, the house had bright, white siding. It gleamed and glowed from the street corner. It had lush, plump bushes by the side, and vibrant tulips growing along the house’s foundation. The interior of the house was old, but beautiful. Antique. Cream-colored wallpaper with flecks of gold in it. Varnished oak wood pillars.
When he returned to the house for the first time since he’d left, he was so taken aback he had to take breaks in between rooms. The siding had turned grey, and the bushes began to take over the side of the house as if they were going to eat it whole. The wallpaper had been stained with fluids, and the varnished wood had been chipped and peeled. The carpets were destroyed and items were overflowing from closets and hallways.
As I followed him through the house, he kept muttering, “Oh, my god.” I felt ashamed. I also felt frightened of him. My mother had told me horrible, terrible things about him and I knew no better than to believe her. He stopped at one of the wooden columns and put his hand on it as if he was trying to steady himself. His wedding ring clunked against the wood and it made me wonder for the first time why he was still wearing it. Why did he still remain loyal after everything?
He did not do anything rash like I was afraid of. Instead, he turned to me and my heart crumbled when I saw the tears in his eyes. He opened his mouth slowly. “I’m so sorry, Lex. God, why did I leave you here? Why did we leave her here?” He turned and looked at my brother who was and had been silent the whole time.
I let out a strangled sob and ran up to hug him and just kept saying, “It’s okay dad.” Over and over it felt like. Following that day, I never wanted to see my father cry again.
The last time I saw my father cry was at his wedding. I say this is the last time because I haven’t seen him cry since. I was standing as a maid of honor in a lovely nest of trees and sunshine. My father was looking down the concrete path, littered with streaks of glittering sunlight. He was waiting for his bride for the second time around. And, there she was, walking in slow strides in a long, almost blinding white gown. As soon as my father’s eyes reached her, his eyes filled with tears. He smiled that crooked smile and let go. That was the most I had ever seen him cry. And I liked it that way. She reached the altar and they exchanged their vows, shedding yet another tear between each word. After the wedding, I held my father’s hand as we walked back down the aisle. As I looked at our intertwined fingers, I swallowed a lump in my throat and smiled warmly as I saw a beautiful wedding band of brushed silver.
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