When my Father was Superman

I was up until 4:00 am the other night; mind you this is not unusual for me, what was was unusual were the circumstances. I was lying in my bed with a pounding headache-again not unusual-bu this time I was crying; in fact I was sobbing, holdng my eyes as my head pounded so hard they bludged outnad felt twice they're size. I was praying my head would stop aching, while crying about the bitterness in my heart.

I can remember the exact moment Irealized my father was not Superman anymore, it hit me that hard. We were driving home from the cemetary in Easton where some of my family is burried. You see every year my father would take me with him as he put flowers on the graves and h would tell me about each one, I loved this, and on the way home I would ask him so many questions and he would thank me for comming, and tell me how important it was for someone to come with him so that someone would always remember. I liked being the memory keeper of the ones who had been a piece of my family, and I realize now perhaps that is where me being everyone elses memory began. But you see I dind't mind back then-I didn't feel a sense of loss insie of me ike I do now desperate to hold on to people and past in my mind lest the be gone forever- I yearned for the stories, I urged my father to tell me more, and I loved the way he told his memories to me, in ways that made the people come alive. I know now more about both sides of my family now because of that curiosity and though I wasn't alive and I didn't really know those people, they live in me as if I did.

I don't know what exactly about this trip was different; as I had been doing this all of my life, but something struck me. Maybe his back was soreand he grumbled, or maybe I was ust growing up, and considering that at that time in my house life ws full of worry and pain for a little girl this might just ave been the case. Whatever it was, I stopped talking and let my father tell me his stories-some I had heard before but it didn't matter-and as he talked I sat in our old blue van and looked down and my father's hands. They were old hands-they looked like my grandfather's-the skin was thin and dappled with the beginning of age spots, and his veins stuck out. I was HORRIFIED; my father was old! I thought about this the entire ride home, trying to liten to him and tune out my thoughts, but I could not stop this one as it came into my head; My Father is not Superman anymore. It was a statement,one of lose and longing, I just wanted to turn back the clock and not think that one day my daddy would die, but that he could do anything and always would be able to say the day, because that was who he was. However I knew that wasn't true, though I can't recall exacly how old I was, I know it was around ten or maybe eleven, which was a really hard time in my family's life, so maybe I just finally noticed how life was wearing him down. There was a tiredness there in his face that had never been so prominent before, and perhaps it was then that it all began.

I stopped loving my father as fiercely as I had before; even as I type this my throat chokes up and tears well in my eyes, but I know that it is true. I didn't mean to, but I felt let down. I knew that he couldnot always keep us safe, and I was mad. Over the years things have gotten better, and more things have gotten harder (you don't need to know the details) my family grew stronger, and weaker, we gained jobs and lost them, went to school only to be in debt, and now it seems though we are all grown we don't knowhow we are going to be what we want to be when we grow up, even if we know what we want to be. Times are hard now and everyone feels this, but I have felt for years now that our family deserves better, I always thought it wasn't right that we had to struggle so much, and I just wanted my mother to have a home she could be proud of (and honestly one that I could be proud of). I feel it when we have people over, and we never have aunts and uncles over, because I guess we are ashamed. We are all thankful, please don't misunderstand, and sometimes I love my home more than anything, but why can't we have a floor to cover the subfloor tht leaks cold air so badly in the winter, and why can't we finish the bathroom, (a project that has been going on for about 4 years or more) and why are our atti and basement places that things seemed to get dumped, especially from my two brothers who have been gone from the house for years now, and my hording father who seems to horde things almost as badly as his father (which was bad to say the least). So I have asked why we can't have a nicer home for a long time, and often tried to make things better, and mostly this seems to no avail, and then I noticed something. There was an anger, boiling in me, a bitterness that bubbled out smarmy remarks, and a contrary nature when it came to my father.
He was supposed to provide for us-my mother said that at this point in the game she thought life would be more comfortable, and less of a struggle-things are worse than ever this year, and I could deal with the cut backs, and the one present or give exchange on christmas (though I was a spoiled child being raised the baby of my family and the baby of the grandchildren on both sides) I even helped to relieve the strain. My sister and I life at home, but we buy groceries, we pay bills, we cook and clean, and do laundry, and so I knew how to be a housewife and I planned shopping trips around coupons and deals-the crockpot has never been used so much in all of my years-and things were ok... or so I thought. But really there was this bitterness seething inside of me, and I realized that I couldn't take it, I know my father works so hard he sometimes could collapse and then doesn't but goes to help my poor grandmother find something that she has lost, but he works for nickels, and he works so much for so little and we all do that nothing was getting done around the house.
All I wanted was for Christmas to be beautiful and for our home not to feel so worthless in comparison to others, I just wanted my father to pick up the clutter and then I knew, that of all nights; the night with the pounding headache, that I had been doing what I do best, to a person I love emensely; I had been pushing away my father. I resented him, and I just wanted him to make things the way they should be; the way I wanted them to be. Suddenly it didn't feel so important as I thought once again of my fathers hands... maybe they weren't old, but worked, maybe he was tired because of how hard he tried, maybe he wanted the same things for our family but couldn't provide them. After all the man works three jobs and odd jobs in an attempt to make the life for his family that he wants for them. I cried and cried in my shame, and thanked God for my father as he is the only one I have and the best one I have ever known. I sobbed and because I love my daddy, and I realized that I was still bitter about a realization that I had had over a decade ago; My Father is not Superman, but now I know he trys harder than anyone man, and I would tke him over Superman anyday!

Yesterday, I thanked my father and told him I appreciated him, and you know what he did today? He spent the whole day trying to work on the attic, so we can declutter the house. I LOVE MY DAD BECAUSE WHILE HE MIGHT NOTGET IT DONE, HE TRYS!