36 years ago this week my dad was hit on his bike and suffered a serious traumatic brain injury. It altered the course of his life and all those in his orbit, including 6-year-old me.
My dad went from an active 37 year-old man with 3 kids, who loved his work as an architect and kayaked on the weekends…. to someone who relied on others for every aspect of his survival.
After the accident my dad relearned to walk and to talk but it was never the same. So many pieces of who he was are forever gone. Grief has been like a backpack I carry with me…. grief about the parts of him I never got to know, grief all he doesn’t remember and can’t tell me about, grief about all the potential shared moments that evaporated in the instant the accident happened. Over the decades, this backpack of grief has become so familiar sometimes I forget I’m wearing it.
My dad lost SO much. But he never lost art.
His yard is filled with found object sculptures that he has created with his old bikes and kayaks and relics from his old life placed and arranged with care. His home is a museum of curated walls covered with duct taped old photos, art my siblings and I have sent him over the last 3 decades, and his colorful paintings- windows into his world.
Once my dad and I did an art show together where I painted his portrait onto found objects and he used them in his sculptures. The pieces are long since dismantled but the portraits on an old window pane, a snow shovel, a mirror still fill his living room space look out at all who enter the space.
My siblings and I are my dad’s legal guardians. We worry about him and worry about how to keep him thriving in the future. The backpack feels heavy sometimes. I feel guilty for not calling enough.
Recently I decided that the phone is not really the right tool for our relationship. Art is our language, not words.
After the pandemic kept us apart for the better part of two years, this June, I sat in my dad’s backyard with my daughter, surrounded by his sculptures, and weeds, and remnants of creations. The table, an old board he’d laid across two old saw horses, was covered in brightly colored pencils, watercolors, and pens. The three of us sat drawing silently with just the sound of the wind in the trees, our pens making marks on the paper.
For this moment in time, there was no backpack, no story from the past or fears for the future, just us there, three generations making art together.
So here’s to my pops who taught me how essential art is to our survival.
