Upon approaching my grandfather's grave at Riverside National Cemetery, I laid a single rose along the right edge of the plaque that identified his grave as one belonging to a World War II Veteran, United States Army-Air Corps. I planted two small American flags, one at each top corner. They waved slightly under the force of the light breeze. I removed my hat, knelt to a single knee, closed my eyes, and prayed a silent prayer.
I remained silent after my prayer, and remained knelt down for an additional moment, also remembering his brothers in arms that had died on the battlefield so many years ago, and recently in the Middle East. As I rose, placing my hat back upon my head, I looked around, and caught the momentary glance of Dad. The other members of my extended family were standing around talking to each other, conversing with my cousin visiting from Arkansas, and sharing stories about Grandpa. My dad stood off to the side, no longer looking in my direction. Perhaps he was in thought. Maybe he simply decided not to talk at that moment. Nonetheless, like me, he understands Grandpa's service to our nation in ways the others in our party may not. After all, Dad is a Vietnam Veteran, and a United States Marine. We, the ones that took an oath to give our lives for liberty during our service to this nation, feel our patriotism in our soul. It lives and breathes inside of us. It begs for a tear when we look upon Old Glory, and remember the lives of the fallen that gave the ultimate sacrifice on the battlefield.
As much as I desire to recognize the taste of freedom as my Grandfather and Dad did, as a peacetime veteran I will never fully understand their experiences on the battlefield. Grandfather served in France during the 1940's, and Dad in Vietnam during the 1960's. I served in the Pacific Ocean during the Reagan years. The most action I saw was when a Soviet vessel followed the Guided Missile Destroyer I was stationed on for thirteen miles.
My cousin, happy to meet me for the first time in person, shook my hand. I gave her a hug when it came time to depart later. Like my Grandfather and Dad, my cousin and I share a bond that few understand. We both have a hole in our heart, one that will never be filled, one that will never be satisfied.
Dad has been my dad since I was two years old. I rarely refer to him as my step-dad since he has been more of a father to me than most biological fathers are capable of being. Mom ensured our lives were grounded in faith and moral clarity, and Dad made sure our lives were grounded in ethics and strong work habits.
Father, the biological one, was not one to spend a whole lot of time with me during my life. I know that he loved me in his own way, but his ability to show that emotion was somehow limited by a lifestyle that he placed an importance upon that overshadowed any semblance of a sound fatherhood. Usually, I received the privilege to see him once a year, with the occasional deuce when he decided to pop up in my life at Christmas and my birthday during the same year. The time I spent with him was fun, a nice change from my otherwise doldrum existence. He bought me things, took me to movies that my parents may not have, and he had a BETA Machine, which played movies on tape - something my parents did not possess, nor could afford. His was a life funded easily through is businesses, and family heritage. Money was something the Gibbs Family was not short of.
Dad, the step-dad, provided everything he could, sometimes working a couple jobs to maintain his household. He poured his energies into keeping a roof over our heads, and food on the table. Dad never treated me as a step-son. As far as he was concerned, I was no different than the two children he and my mother produced after they married. He did everything to make my life normal, and to ensure I didn't notice the hole in my heart.
Even my grandparents, Dad's folks in Arkansas, got to the point where I was so much a part of the family they even forgot the fact that I was not blood related. Grandma often made remarks saying something along the lines of, "Oh, you got that from your dad," referring to her son, of whom I shared no genetics with.
He was twice the Dad I could ever hope to be, yet after that once a year visit with my father I would come home with the attitude that the biological version was the best guy in the world. The attitude lasted about two weeks, usually, and it surely hurt the feelings of the man that was doing all the work to raise me, and love me. But Dad never said anything about it. If it bothered him, I never knew. He understood, I believe, that it was the hole in my heart talking. The hole was acting out. The hole in my heart wished it did not have to suffer an abandonment issue caused by my father by blood. What I didn't understand at the time was that the man who was my biological father never really thought about fatherhood, never expected to have an heir, and didn't know how to be anything else other than a once or twice a year visitor.
As an adult, now, I understand the hole in my heart. I recognize that it is simply a natural occurrence for children who never knew one of their parents as much as they hoped. Throughout my childhood I strove to earn the pride of a man that didn't know how to be proud of a son he accidentally fathered. I secretly imagined him sitting in the stands during my baseball games. I wished, after he vanished during my teenage years, that he would appear just in time to see me finish a race and receive a medal, or grin at the fact that I was a Letterman. I hoped that he would surprise me by showing up to my high school graduation, or appear just in time to see me off to boot camp when I joined the U.S. Navy. I wondered how much like him I truly was, even though any environmental factors that may mold my personality to be like his did not exist. I wondered if I was anything like him, and secretly feared that I might be.
He reappeared in my life after my aunt, his sister, passed away. I was beyond my teenage years, and married long enough to have a son. His appearance was long after the accident that left me in a coma, and hospitalized for months. He appeared long after I needed him to. He missed the right moments. He failed to live up to my expectations.
During our reunion, I introduced him to his grandson, and asked him his feelings about my child. He responded, "I don't like children."
I suppose I should have figured it out at that moment that my attempts to win a relationship with him were more or less futile, but as hard headed as I am, I continued to pursue getting to know my father better.
In 1998 our relationship finally began to grow. I called him every Saturday, visited him a few times up on the Oregon Coast. He died six months later, before the relationship could truly grow.
His friends say he had a heart attack while driving up the main road to the house. The alcohol level in his blood told me otherwise. He was a drinker, and had always been one. He took a turn too fast and drove his car right off the road, over a long drop, into the Chetco River. The head injury he received when the car slammed into a multitude of trees on the way down killed him instantly. A lucky break, I suppose, since the car wound up under eight feet of cold water when the vehicle finally came to rest.
Again, he had abandoned me.
My mother, his ex-wife, drove up to Oregon with me to tend to his body. During the 16-hour drive we exchanged a few thoughts about the man who had fathered me, but the conversation never left the realm of the surface. Emotions were carefully tucked away, and sensitivities were respected.
In Oregon, when it came time to view his body, I did not wish to do so. My mother urged me to, explaining that I needed closure. So, reluctantly, I entered the room and sat down. I could have sworn I saw movement in his lifeless body. A twinkle in his closed eye. A smile.
I wiped my tears, walked up to the man, and placed my hand on his stiff body. The tears returned, and I spent the next twenty minutes telling the man everything I ever wanted to say. I spilled my heart out, emptying the aging hole that resided deep in my angry heart. I poured all of my emptiness upon the corpse that lay before me, often approaching the threshold of yelling at him. Then, afterward, when I had said all that shored the hole in my heart, I sat down on the bench across from him and wept. I wept for him. I wept that he didn't know the Lord. I wept that he never understood me. I wept that he was incapable of caring about anyone other than himself. I wept for my own self-pity, that he didn't fill the hole in my heart as I desired, that he refused to live up to the hopes I secretly held deep in my soul.
Today, on Memorial Day, after the memories of my biological father forced a couple tears to well up in my eyes, I looked over at the man that has been "Dad" most of my life. Some would call him my step-dad, but to me he is Dad. He was happy to be with his family. He was surely remembering fond thoughts of his father-in-law that lay in the grave below the plaque that was adorned with my rose and two flags. He was there to love me as his son, even though the hole in my heart sometimes made me say things that broke his. He hugged me, and told me he loves me.
The hole in my heart remains, and I suppose it will never be filled, but the love of the ones around me, many of whom "decided" to love me, regardless of whether or not their blood runs through my veins, makes living with that hole in my heart a little bit easier.
