My memories

I was at the gym this morning setting up for class when two guys walked in. I had never seen them before. They had completed their workout and asked if they could use the room to stretch before my class started. While they stretched, we made small talk. How long had I been teaching? Why had I never seen them around the gym before? Were they not hardcore enough to take my class? Would I like to have an arm wrestling contest with them?

The good natured banter went back and forth for a few minutes. Then they gathered their things and as they were walking out the door one of the guys turned to me and said, "Have a nice life!" And then the following conversation took place:

Me: See I told you you were too afraid to come back and take my class.

Him: Well if you taught your class in Poway, California I would certainly give it a try.

Me: Oh you're from Poway. My father used to work for a newspaper down there.

Him: I work for a newspaper in Poway. What is his name?

Me: Steve Heide.

Him: I remember Steve. Worked there back in the 90's didn't he?

Me: You knew my father?

Him: Well we worked in different departments, so I didn't know him well. But that's not a name you easily forget. What's he doing now?

Me: Sadly, he died in a motorcycle accident a few years ago.

Him: Oh I'm sorry to hear that. He seemed like such a good man.

Me: He was.

And then my class began filing in and he excused himself so I could start on time. But my heart was racing. That brief encounter had rattled me. He knew my father. And maybe not well, but he knew him. And I wanted to chase after him and ask him a million more questions. Was my father well liked? Was he a hard worker? What was he like? Who did he hang around?

Lucky for him, I had a class waiting on me. Because even though he made it clear he did not know my father well,  I would have bounced question after question off of him. I would have wanted to get his contact info and email him more questions. Questions he could not answer. Questions I could not answer. Questions that are best left unanswered.

I know my father loved me. I don't doubt that. But he was absent. And he did not know what being a father meant. You have to be present. You have to show love, not just buy it. You have to be a lot of things he was incapable of being. Yes I know he loved me, but not much more.

I never really knew him. I think few people actually did. He will always be somewhat of a mystery to me. Which is fine. Because I have chosen to fill in the blanks with good memories. The best ones are the only ones I think of. The perfect ones are the ones I share with my daughters.

And so for a few minutes this morning, when my thoughts turned to my father, all these emotions came crashing to the surface. All these cherished memories began battling with what was real. And I know my memories of him aren't always accurate. I know they are a bit flawed, too sugarcoated. But his death allowed me that. I get to choose how I remember him. I don't get to make new memories, so the ones I replay, the ones that matter, are exactly as they should be.