Saturday, June 14, 2014

Missing Mick: A Father's Day Post


When I was about eight I tried to run away from home and my mom called him at work. He came home, put me in the car and took me to (literal) boarded up crack houses in Jackson. He wouldn't turn the air on, either, and he said "If somebody else got you, you'd be in the trunk. That's unsafe, so I can't do that, but it would be hotter than this. I can't let that happen to you."

When I was fourteen and was broken up with by the first boy I ever loved, he told me about "Melanie" the girl who he thought he'd marry in college. She puked in his Mustang and it never smelled the same. If she hadn't dumped him, he'd have never wound up with Minnie. Melanie wasn't Minnie and that guy from eighth grade wouldn't have been Peyton.

When we got married, he gave the most beautiful toast at the rehearsal dinner and he teared up. It was the second time I'd seen that happen in my life. [The first was when our family dog died. He loved Chelsea so much.]

When Graves was about one, I was watching them roll a ball back and forth. I saw something so special- something I've seen time and time again- that they both loved each other in a way that they loved no one else in the world.

And when we moved, though I never saw it, Minnie told me...this self proclaimed graduate of the John Wayne School of Manhood had a few more good cries.

I'm so grateful for him and his quiet but overwhelming love.

[Sidenote: I think Mickey circa 1985 sort of resembles Sam Seaborn. Just me?]

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