When Birthdays are for Remembering

My Dad, Arthur Rubinoff and me, c. 1986.

 

This is my absolute, hands-down favorite picture of all time. Look at my Dad’s face.  It says, ‘This girl is nuts, and I love her with all my heart.’

I was about 18 years old.  I guess someone wanted to take a picture, so he grabbed me and pulled me close.  He probably said something like, ‘Get over here Little Chicky’ (or Mara Bara, or just MB-he definitely was one for the nicknames).

The last time I saw my Dad, he was pretty much sleeping all the time.  Right when I got up to leave, after sitting there holding his hand for about an hour, his eyes fluttered open, and he said, ‘I love you MB’. Then he smoochy faced me (like air kissing but with meaning), and closed his eyes again.

I called my husband and told him what happened, and I said, ‘If I that was the last time, then I’m ok.’  And it was the last time.  But of course, it wasn’t ok.  Those were brave words from a girl about to lose her Daddy.

Today would be my Dad’s 71st Birthday.  I’m thinking about you Daddy. About all the happy and silly times we had.  About the crazy things you did with us kids on our weekends.  About how you introduced me to the beauty in art and the art in food.  How you taught me dirty jokes (to which neither of us can ever remember the punchlines). About how you passed on your affinity for hot sauce to your Mini-Me, Little J (as well as your incredible brains).

About the wise words you said to me that I was never ready to listen to, but that now I’m just hearing.  About how you frustrated me, pushed me, and challenged me to be a better person.  About how I glowed when you told me I was a wonderful mother, and excellent caregiver, the best cook.  About how I melted when you would squish me tight and tell me ‘I love you.’

Happy 71st bday Daddy. We love you, we miss you. Your cake is in the doggie bag, ready to take home for later.

ps: I’m shaking my Keppel curls*, just for you.

*Keppel:  Yiddish slang for head.  When I was little I had what’s commonly referred to in movies as a ‘jew-fro’. Whenever my Dad would pick me up on weekends, the first thing he’d say to me was: ‘Hey Chicky, Shake those Keppel Curls’.  And I’d give a little wiggle of my tush, then shake my curls like it was nobody’s business.

Posted by chickymara on September 3, 2011

https://beniceorleavedotcom.wordpress.com/2011/09/03/when-birthdays-are-for-remembering/