Father's Day

Have you ever seen a grown man cry? I remember waiting for my husband to come home on Hardy's last day. I was lying on the porch, and one of the kindest men in the neighborhood was stroking my hair repeating over and over, "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault." I had found my way outside after washing the stench off my body; the clothes I had been wearing were strewn in a heap inside the shower, and I left them there in a soaked mass. I was inconsolable though - I felt like I had just lost the battle of my life. I don't remember how long I lay on the porch when I finally saw my husband walking up the driveway. He had been contacted at work, and he didn't really know exactly what happened, only that Hardy was gone. As soon as my eyes met his, he began crying.

I ran to him and he held me tightly in his arms, weeping mournfully. I remember thinking, if he was only there with me, this wouldn't have happened. There was some relief upon his arrival because I knew he would be feeling the pain over the loss of our little doggie as much as me. He asked me to tell him what happened, and I did. I kept repeating, "I couldn't save him. I couldn't save him," and "If you were there, this wouldn't have happened. You're so strong." As I pressed my face to his chest, I felt that there was finally someone with me who shared my pain. He loved Hardy too. He shared his life with him too. He was the father of my children, even Hardy. It was his idea on our weekend trip to Wine Country last April to bring Hardy along. The people we met on our tour of the Castello di Amorosa likely remember our sweet little companion dog.

How Hardy loved men! I remember how he was with my own father. There was a special bond between them. My dad used to rough house with Hardy a little, and when I went away with my family on a trip, it was my dad and mom who took over the care taking of Hardy. My dad usually had stories to tell me upon my return. Most of the stories were of their walks. It was my father who called me after he got the news from my sister; it's usually mom who calls. To this day, I don't think I've ever seen my father cry. My dad is from the generation that fought in the Korean War. Men from his generation don't cry - at least not outwardly. But on this day over the telephone, I could tell that my father was really heartbroken about our loss. I held the telephone to my ear, as he expressed his condolences, puzzled over what I was hearing. My dad was sincerely shedding tears over the loss of Hardy. “I’m really broken up by this,” he sobbed.

When I think about the men who were with me on that day, I feel a vast source of strength and power. I don’t feel alone in my pain and grief. Those men were extraordinary: from the neighborhood men who fought by my side and held me up during the walk to my home, to the man who stroked my hair on my porch, to my husband and father who share my grief, to the police officer who wrote the report. Somehow my loss seems more significant because they cried. Because it takes a lot to make a grown man cry.