For as long as I can remember, my father has been telling me that I am just like Adele, his mother. But what I've found out about Adele since I started asking Caron questions is that she was treated like shit by everyone in her family except her sister Eleanor. I feel the total opposite. Of all the emotional wars waged in my household, I am the lucky one.
Caron keeps saying of Adele, "She was looking for the tenderness. She had the love of her life, but she was still looking for love."
My father never told me that he bathed Adele when she was getting close to the end of her life. He didn't tell me that he slept in the same bed with her for a short while after his father died because the fear of losing his mother was too much for him. He didn't tell me that the basement at Dover Avenue had rooms separated by bedsheets because they had no money. Or how handsome he was when he was 16. He never told me any of these things. And yet I feel I knew them all along.
For the length of my life with my father, he has done two things without interruption or complaint. He has loved, and he has taken care of those he loves. What I didn't know, is that he was the only one out of his brothers who loved his mother without reservation. One was similar to my dad, but less gentle. One was hateful toward her and embarrassed by her. One didn't seem to have the time to care. Three men I barely know.
Last night I stumbled upon some photographs taken of my father when he was in Florida in June 1972. Thirty eight years and three days later, I was looking at his photo. I had never even seen a picture of him as a kid without a beard. I didn't even recognize him. But then I looked closer, and found his eyes.
My God, he was so young. He had long shaggy hair, way longer than he ever let my brother grow his. And a funny body, half lanky, half athletic. He was posing with his three brothers, each of their personalities coming through in one way or another: a tongue stuck out, one pulling my dad's hair, another with a sly smile on his face. But my dad's expression is mild, it's kind. He was sweet from the start, my father.
I stared at another shot for about twenty minutes, alternating between silence and exclamation at how young and handsome he was. He is on the beach and has his arm slung around Eleanor's neck. She is smiling and he is staring straight into the camera as though he is about to say something, in that tiny moment before we open our mouths. It is what one might call a "moment" shot. Its composition is perfect, effortless. I looked at it and expected him to say something. That's the thing about photographs. They're unfinished. Time goes on, but you only get that moment.
Maybe that's why I take so many.
This summer could easily turn me into a chain smoker. There is just too much to think about.
So for this evening, I'll leave you with that. A glimpse of my father, the likes of which I had never seen until 24 hours ago.
You think you love someone, and then you love them more.
-Ali
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