The Anniversary I Dread
the wound that never stops hurting
Monday, May 5th, 1980.
I was fourteen. My father was 38.
Daddy had had his first heart attack early in 1971. I was five. Daddy, 28.
It was not the last heart attack, and for years they kept happening. Surgery followed surgery. Bypasses reached the quadruple level.
In 1976, Eastern Savings Bank asked my father to retire. He was 33. I was ten.
Daddy couldn’t work, and even though we had moved house twice by that point—from Westbrookville to Tappan and from Tappan to Nyack—to make the commute to the Bronx easier, it was getting harder and harder to control the symptoms: the shortness of breath, the stiffness in his chest and arms.
In hindsight, the adults knew that Daddy’s death was imminent. His mother had been with us for months, and his beloved baby sister, my Auntie Ann, had spent at least a month with us too, with her family.
I won’t, can’t speak for my siblings, but I had been a frog in a pot of slowly simmering water since 1971. How does anyone teach a child to prepare for the death of a parent? How does anyone teach a child to grieve?
I got used to the situation. The oxygen tanks, the hospital visits, the exhaustion in Daddy’s voice. They were normal.
Monday, May 5th, 1980.
I took the bus to school that morning. I was in the eighth grade. Mrs. Nodelman’s homeroom at Rockland Country Day School.
The following essay won a non-fiction award for White Enso in November of 2022. I was barely able to talk about my father for decades after he passed. Now, however, nearly everything I write brings my closer to him.
Bending Time
Hiro sits beside me in the rented Altima. He sets the air-conditioning to maximum; the humidity in Jersey City this morning is pitiless. I haven’t experienced an East Coast summer since 1988, and Hiro left Tōkyō’s brutal summers behind when he followed me to the Pacific Northwest in 1998.
Siri’s instructions frustrate and it is miles before familiar landmarks in Fort Lee appear, guiding me to the Palisades Parkway entrance.
Exits and place names conjure memories. My family lived off Highway 303 in Tappan for two years. Hiro groans when I remind him how much eight-year-old me laughed in the Polynesian restaurant in Orangeburg. “Daddy’s favorite appetizer was the pu-pu platter!”
The hill before the Townline Road exit was where our car once struggled in the snow. It was the night early in 1970 that Mommy and Daddy had flown home from Copenhagen. Too tired to panic, I had curled up against Mommy, comforted by the Jean Naté scent within her faux leopard coat.
Highway 59 appears on an exit sign, and Saint Anthony’s cemetery waits. I find shade in the far corner, near to Daddy’s head stone.
I bow before Daddy, Deacon Charles M Watson, 1942–1980, and Hiro takes my right hand in his left, watching for a moment as I fight the tears.
“Gobusata deshita, otōsan.”
Hearing my husband apologize for our long absence, hearing him call Daddy his father too, lets loose my tears. I succumb to sorrow, feeling it rise. Hiro’s grip on my hand grows a little tighter, and then he slips from my grasp. His hand now rises up to caress my left shoulder; we stand before Daddy, the lump in my throat diminishing.
The tears pause, and behind the waning sorrow waits a small happiness. I look at Hiro and see twenty-nine years of love. I sigh. “Arigatō.”
“For what?”
“For coming with me.”
“Of course, I’d come with you.”
As we return to the car, Hiro stops at the end of a row. “Do you think we could borrow this watering can? If we leave it by the faucet near your father’s row?”
“There was one?”
“Yes. We don’t have a brush, but we could still rinse the headstone.”
I nod.
He lugs the full can, asking me to navigate back to Daddy. Hiro and I take turns, cascading the water over the warm granite. We bow once more when done, deeply, my tears already welling. Hiro waits for my shuddering gasps to ease before prompting me. “Mata kimasu.”
“Yes, Daddy, we will come back.”
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My dear friend Kaoru waits at my old day school’s entrance.
We walk past the little library, pointing up at the gabled second floor room where I took computer science on an Apple IIe.
Photos are taken of Kaoru and me, Hiro and me, and my long arms let us laugh for a picture of the three of us. Kaoru waves as she heads back to work, and I turn to Hiro. “Let’s stop in Nyack.”
“Where you used to live?”
“I want to see what the house looks like now.”
Siri chooses a route; I obey. South on Kings Highway. Before we pass into Valley Cottage, it strikes me. “This is the way Mr. Eccles drove me home.”
“Who?”
“My day school’s headmaster. Daddy died while I was at school. Mr. Eccles drove me home.”
So little has changed. The same houses, the same railroad crossing, the same traffic lights.
As we turn on to Christian Herald Road, Hiro’s iPhone, connected to the car’s speakers, selects a new song. I startle. “Yellow Magic Orchestra?”
“Yes. Citizens of Science, from the Zōshoku album.”
“Didn’t that come out in 1980?”
“I think so.”
“Such an odd coincidence.”
“Because it’s the year your father died? Did you listen to YMO then?”
“No. I think I was in college when I first heard their music. I’m imagining you listening to them during middle school.”
I smile as we pass Nyack High School. “This used to be up the hill from my house. I wonder when they relocated it.”
It’s not the high school I’m smiling about, though, and my eyes suddenly glisten.
“Why are you crying?” Hiro’s hand rests on my thigh.
“I just realized something. Something that makes me very happy.”
“What is it?”
“My past is here, and my present is here.” I quickly meet his glance. “And my future is here.”
“Always here. With you.”
Updates
Querying is upon me.
This marks my fifth round of searching for a literary agent.
Back in October, I received some excellent, actionable feedback from an agent. In December, I received feedback from both a mentor and an old friend. My memoir’s manuscript is now tighter and more textured—a friend in my local writing group calls my style floaty and atmospheric, which is perfect—and, thanks to
, I have a kick-ass proposal and query letter.And I have a potent essay coming out on Wednesday, May 8th, in
Perfect time to send query letters.Although I have to confess: I have queried three agents in advance, all of whom I’d love to work with,
You might be thinking that by now, I’m used to querying.
Nope.
From the second I send out a query, I hover around my email inbox.
Thanks for sharing this with us, Brian. I love "floaty and atmospheric"--that's awesome! On a personal note, my children's dad died when they were 8 and 11 (now 13 and 16) and though they are thriving, it will be interesting to see how his death affects them in adulthood. I'm glad you have been able to find peace through writing.
So moving. I can’t imagine a father dying so young of heart problems. Love the gentleness and respect of your husband. A difficult anniversary to be sure.