Goodbye #1: Dad Comes to Austin

My dad came to visit me in Austin this past weekend. It was his first trip to any of the places I've ever lived outside New Mexico, and definitely a new experience for both of us.

I've always visited my dad at his house near Tome, not 5 miles from Adelino, the sleepy hispanic town where I was raised in the Rio Grande Valley. By default his house has become my home base in New Mexico now that both my mom and I have given up permanent residence. I have been "home" 4 times since moving to Austin, always happy for the chance to see old friends, but this time it was his turn. Te tocaba a ti, dad.

My cell phone rang earlier than it should have. I was still on my way down Highway 71, a couple of minutes from the airport.

"Hey dad, I'll be right there. I'm just around the corner." I tried to will the car to go faster. How did I end up being late? I planned everything so well...

"Okay, pup. I'm waiting in front of exit 2 near baggage claim."

It had been at least 10 years since the last time my dad called me "pup." I smiled and wondered if it had been at all conscious. My smile turned to a laugh when I pulled around the corner and finally saw him. My dad was wearing his signature tweed jacket and driving cap, with a khaki fly fishing vest thrown over the whole getup in the spirit of practical travel. Allen Ginsberg meets Orvis. Nice. We hugged and got back in the car, driving past bluebonnets and gentleman's clubs towards the city.

I have always liked hanging out with my dad. We have great conversations about everything from the second amendment to Quentin Tarantino's new martial arts effects. Hands down the best storyteller I know, he narrates with such involvement that your breath catches in anticipation of the details. I have been his audience for countless stories and even a few photography classes, but never his tour guide. I really wanted him to see my life in Austin, understand a bit more about what I've experienced in the last few years.

My dad's trip was particuarly important for me in terms of finding closure before moving to Africa. Just over a year ago I got a phone call from my stepmom in the middle of the night that made my stomach drop.

"Your dad had a heart attack!" She was hysterical, and it was difficult for me to understand exactly what had happened through her sobs. My stepbrother took over the conversation.

"Your dad tried to convince everyone it was just a bad burrito he'd eaten for lunch. They've got him scheduled for an angioplasty tomorrow."

When I finally spoke with my dad on the phone later that day, he was on morphine and I could barely recognize his quiet, slurred words. At least I knew he was alive. I flew back to New Mexico on the first flight out and spent the next three days on the sofa, just eating enchiladas and knitting. The whole experience had shaken me more than I was willing to admit, and my cheeks actually ached from putting on a strong face.

My dad's heart attack was the closest I ever want to get to losing someone I love without the chance to say goodbye. Too often we censor ourselves, holding back kind words and warm hugs because we see no justification for a sentimental outporing on a regular old Tuesday. We take it for granted that our loved ones will be with us on Wednesday, and Thursday, and each day after that. But there are no guarantees, especially with an ex-smoker that puffed for 40 years before ending up on the operating table.

My dad and I had such a nice time together this past weekend, just hanging out and having lazy conversations. We ate breakfast on Sunday at Cafe Mundi, this hidden hippie cafe next to the railroad tracks with a garden full of banana trees. Despite the overcast weather, we sat outside and ate migas while boat-tailed grackels looked on greedily. Then the raindrops started and we decided to drive west to Fredericksburg, an old German colony in the middle of the Texas hill country.

The hour and a half drive went by in a blur. My dad rigged his iPod up to my cassette deck and we jammed out to Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, and Miles Davis. Bright swaths of poppies and black-eyed susans blanketed the side of the highway, the colors running together to create long ribbons of red and yellow. About 7 miles outside Fredericksburg we came across Texas' version of a heat mirage: endless fields of wildflowers planted so close together they looked like solid blocks of color. We stopped and took pictures in the middle of the flowers, then treated ourselves to big bowls of homemade peach ice cream.

Further down the road we hit Fredericksburg's historic downtown. It felt like everything had been frozen in time around 1925. The wide main street was teeming with people window shopping and eating chunks of fudge, enjoying the sunny weather. We gawked at the old limestone buildings and wrought iron ornaments, and wandered through a few courtyards before heading back to Austin for some dinner.

The South Congress Cafe delivered great food once again, with the tomato-roquefort soup and crab enchiladas the definite highlights of the meal. I love dining in Austin - everything is so pointedly hip, but you can always get away with wearing jeans and boots even in the trendiest of places. Full and happy, we drove back to my apartment and settled in for a night of dorking out on the computer and learning how to use my new 40G iPod.

And then, before I knew it, Monday arrived and it was all over. Time to go to the airport, time to kick off my last week of work, time to say goodbye. We stood on the curb outside the Southwest check-in area and looked at each other, not knowing exactly how to proceed.

Sometimes the most significant moments in life can be strangely anti-climactic, especially if they are planned out. You want everything to be seeped in meaning, profound and beautiful enough to last you a lifetime if necessary. The thing is, you can go through the motions but it takes time for those memories to really develop. You aren't hit with the flood of emotions until you are half a world away and several months have gone by. Then you realize how important that field of flowers was, how special the endless conversations about music were, and how you don't have any of it anymore except stored away in your mind.

"This has been a wonderful, wonderful weekend, Ali." My dad stepped forward and gave me the biggest hug his small frame could manage.

"Thanks, Dad. I'm glad you made it out here."

"Enjoy this hug," he said, "it's going to have to last us for quite a while." I squeezed him back tight and stared up at the thick, hazy clouds overhead. How do you hug hard enough when you are painfully aware it might be the last time?

The whole time my dad was in Austin, we never directly addressed that point. We talked about his nitrates, and the fact that he's now addicted to Altoids (cigarette substitute!), and how he has good cholesterol levels - but we never talked about the fact that he might die while I'm away having adventures in Africa! For me, it was a constant undercurrent to the trip, but I was afraid to really bring it up. I didn't want to seem morbid, or speak words that would take on a prophetic power and later fill me with guilt, like somehow by talking about my dad's mortality I would have indadvertently guaranteed his untimely passing. The problem is, by not acknowledging the all-too-real possibility that I might never see my dad again, things were left unsaid. So let me say them now...

I appreciate you, I forgive you, I admire you, and I love you.