A Note for Virginia…

There is nothing quite so lonely as a house just after death. The hole that is left by someone’s passing is bigger than life.

I woke to a text message this morning “My dad died this am @ 3:30 as I held his hand in mine. Thx for all ur support. I’ll call later.”

Such simple words, but so full of a lifetime of emotion.

Virginia’s father was so like my own, that the flood of memories came pouring into my mind. Her father, like mine, was a strong figure in his girls’ lives. Virginia’s dad, like my own, was a father to females. My dad used to say he felt like he lived in a girls’ dormitory. Both of them put up a good fight to the end, and they both went out fearlessly.

When I remember my father’s passing, I’m proud to be his daughter. He chose to live life on his own terms. He wasn’t a cookie-cutter version of some Leave It to Beaver model of parenting. He smoked cigarettes and drank more than he should have. When I was younger I found fault with my dad’s brand of fatherhood, but I was fortunate enough to develop an understanding of him before he died, and by then I had grown to love the kind of father I had. He was the father I got, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Like me, Virginia is the youngest child in her family. Left to pick up the pieces left behind by our older siblings, we are kindred spirits. I was present at the birth of both her children. She took my only daughter to her first rock concert.

We used to sit in lecture halls together, scribbling notes to one another as our professor lectured on topics I can’t quite remember. Our scribbled notes though, I will never forget. We would write to one another about a hacienda in Mexico where we would live. We would drop out, have only people we loved there, and spend the rest of our days being our authentic selves. As the lectures grew more dry, the images of our haven evolved. We decorated it in bright colors and the scent of roasting onion and chiles and corn tortillas filled the air as we danced to Latin rhythms that only the two of us could hear.

Our hacienda became our code for freedom, and it was as real to us then as any dream could be.

A couple of weeks ago I got an email from Virginia that said “Hey do you think that
somewhere in time our hacienda exists?”

I do, Virginia, and I think both our papis are waiting for us there.