I don’t even know where to begin. That’s actually a really hard sentence for me to write because the first sentence of a blog post is the most important one and writers block is probably the most annoying thing that can happen to someone who is better at writing down what they want to say instead of saying it out loud. But I seriously don’t know where to begin so I guess I’ll just start typing. You know when you’re watching a movie and your hands get a little bit cold so you roll your selves up over your hands to help make them warm up? For some reason my hands just naturally fall close to my face and eventually just end up sitting on my lips right underneath my nose.
Without even realizing that my hands had moved from my lap to inside my sleeves, to my chest, to my face, I took a big sniff (because its allergy season and I’m allergic to everything under God’s golden sun so my nose is like a leaky faucet right now) and I realize that my sweater smells. Not in like an “ew I need to wash this” way, but my sweater had a distinct smell. It smelt like me. I feel like every person has a distinct smell (I googled this and each human being does actually secrete a distinct smell by particles called pheromones. They believe they were used thousands of years ago to attract a mating partner which would make sense if you lived 5000 years ago because there was no such thing as perfume. Pheromones were literally caveman perfume.) and my smell happened to smell like my sweet, fruity perfume and coffee and those two smells combined actually was not that pleasant which made me somewhat happy that I didn’t go outside and socialize at all today while wearing this sweater. Reminding myself of my specific smell got me thinking about my dad and how he had a specific smell which I can still so clearly see in my memories. He kind of smelt like old library books and adidas cologne, like this musky “I’m an extra manly man who only eats steak and drinks beer”
smell which really isn’t too far off from the truth with him. Remembering his smell made me realize that I will never smell it again and it will only exist in mine and his other family member’s memories. To be truthful this thought upset me because it was another ending of his life that I had not yet realized mattered to me. It had reminded me that some day when I die and all the other people who remembered his smell have died, even the memories of his smell would be gone and there would be absolutely nobody on earth left who knew what he smelled like. I was having an existential crisis because of a smell. What was happening to me? It was this thought that made me write down what he smelled like because when people die, at least parts of their life (including what they wrote down) would be left behind for other people to find and learn about them. While writing down what my dad used to smell like in purple sparkly gel pen because it was literally the only pen I could find, I realized that even after people die you can still learn about them.
“I realized that even after people die you can still learn about them.”
I have realized now that I have learned so many new things about my dad since his passing. I learned about how he pushed his little sister (my aunt) into the sidewalk one day when they were walking home from school and he cut her face up so bad that she needed stitches. My dad felt so bad that he hurt his little sister and he cried and cried and apologized over and over again to my grandma for hurting her. Nice one dad. I also learned that my dad was really great at writing poetry. He wrote the most beautiful poem I’ve ever read on the true spirit of Christmas and how the greed of human kind has destroyed the birth of Christ and turned it into a season of selfish greed.
I also learned that my dad liked cats, reading and his favourite colours were not actually black and orange that he so often told people because it was Harley Davidson colours (like I said earlier, he was an extra manly-man) but it was actually green. He used to be a fan of the Falcons (I think that’s a football team?), the only sports he didn’t like watching were basketball and hockey and took his coffee the same way I take mine with two milk and two sugars. I think the most important thing I’ve learned so far is that my dad could have written a book, and he should have but even though he’s gone doesn’t mean that he can’t, because I’m still here. Memories and thoughts from his life are falling into my lap like missing pages of the book he never wrote. I am constantly still learning about him even though he’s no longer here and its making me understand more and more about the person that he was. He always told me that we needed to have a writer in the family, and I always thought it would have been him, but I think he had a different person in mind.
I try and stay away from sentimental and sad blog posts because how much do random strangers really need to know about me on my blog? (Just kidding, I have like 30 people read my blog and most of them are my family. Hi mom. Yes, I made my bed today.) but this really wasn’t a sad story for me. The thought of me learning more and more about my dad even though he is no longer here made me so incredibly happy because its like he’s left clues of his life that he’s just waiting for people and discover and talk about. Any person who’s ever lost someone has that same opportunity to do that with their loved one and I think that’s the most beautiful and uplifting thing about humanity I’ve ever heard. Perhaps one day when I’m gone and my grandchildren drive flying cars, have 5D movies and the internet is a thing of the past,
they’ll stumble across this and learn something they didn’t know about me or their great grandfather who they never had the chance to meet. Death is the hardest part about being a human but discovering things about that person even after their gone makes their life enjoyable to remember and learn about. History is fascinating and the future is uncertain but the opportunity to learn something about a person who is gone will always be there and I think that’s pretty damn amazing.