Part Seven: Memories of a Grateful Daughter: My Father on Heaven

My Father on Heaven

My father relaxes in his chair with his feet on his footstool. The leather chair and ottoman is where he will always be in my mind. It is his throne and his refuge. The rubber bands from his daily paper stuffed into the side between the frame and the seat cushion. They sit in the same place they have always sat, save Christmastime when the room is arranged to accommodate the tree. It is the corner of the living room in front of a wooden built in bookshelf painted white and lined with books. On the bottom shelf sits an enormous dictionary. The other shelves hold titles of History, Philosophy and Theology mostly, and books about Poland. Next to it sits his reading lamp which has a little circular table around its middle. The table holds an odd assortment of knick knacks that prove he is kind. They are gifts from us that should have been thrown away on reception. The one I recall is a little squat brown statue of some unearthly creature. Its beard is made of something soft. It sits atop a miniature pedestal which reads “worlds greatest dad” or something of the sort.

He is ill. His hair is thin from the chemo treatments. We have had a visit from a family friend also fighting cancer. She will live to see her daughter married, but not much longer. We have been talking of heaven. After she leaves my dad talks to me, but he is really musing to himself:

When I think of heaven I think of Peter and Paul, Jerome and Vincent. John the Baptist for goodness sake. Heaven is surely filled with misfits. People who never really fit in this world. It makes me wonder if I will fit in there.