Open Letter

Why I did not attend my father's memorial

(I originally planned to attend his memorial last April. After a gut check, I found my answer surprised me. In the days before his memorial – held three years after his passing – I knew my decision was right. Today I explain why.)

The first sentence is me imagining I am at the memorial, standing before all that gathered, giving my comments.

I wish Garth was here, Gary Riley’s eldest child. But he can’t be for his own reasons that I would speculate are both physical and spiritual. Those are Garth’s to know.

But what I do know is this, Dad’s last words to Garth when the divorce was finalized were, “You are the man of the house now.”

And that’s the moment Garth went from a happy-go-lucky California kid to someone asked to set his feelings and needs aside for everyone else. Forever. I liken it to a Mandate from God.

And that was the moment I became the keeper of my big brother’s emotions.

To stand in a room and watch your father die? Well, first off, it’s shit that will one day work itself to the back of the memory queue, but not for a long while. Some far off day from now, regular memories, those seasoned with joy, humor, love, admiration, and adoration will dwell in the front of the mind and heart again. But that day is not today.

And second, I imagine when you are told to, “be the man of the house,” the unsaid part is that you are no longer allowed to express any raw, untamed, wild emotions again, even the ones that bubble up when you see your father on a deathbed.

I imagine walking that tightrope is rough, near impossible.

I can only guess because I am lucky. I’ve always been allowed to express my feelings. Or maybe I learned early on to shut out familial judgments?

As for me and the memorial…my time to say goodbye to Dad came and went three years ago. I have him in my life, even now, and am willfully preserving our earthly goodbye.

To attend a memorial today might blur that last farewell.

My most cogent moment after his passing? It was standing with his beloved Kate, my precious first-born, Nora, and my special sister, Laine, as the smoke of my father’s burning remains circled us as we stood vigil outside the crematorium. Wisps of smoke embraced us. And then he was caught up in the wind, free to blow over the Pacific, then tumble onto the shores of a Blue Beach to wait for the day the rest of us – the people and dogs he loves – make our way to those hallowed sands.

I carry his legacy of storytelling forward with the work I do. I carry his crass humor, his love of planning; What are we gonna watch? What are we gonna eat?

He visits my dreams.

He shows up in daylight as a hummingbird or a random song on my Spotify.

I forgive him for treating me and Garth different than our little brother and sister. I know it was a trade off. I got to experience the Robert Redford-Gary Riley; the sock puppeteer; the fast-flashy-car-driving, the sighted, smoking fiend.

I understand the trade off.

He loved us all, still does. Hell! He came to me in a dream where everyone was gathered around some vast kitchen, the hum of conversation and smells of food mixing into a Riley party for the ages. It was a wider circle than what is gathered here, at the memorial. This group included all of you plus friends of friends, second cousins, neighbors, babies on my husband’s side he’d never met, as well as your loved ones he’d never laid eyes on.

In the dream a glass shattered onto the stone floor. As I fretted over the broken shards, worried baby Auden would cut their tender hands, I spotted Dad’s bare feet!

If you knew Dad late in life, then you also know he NEVER had bare feet. Shoes and socks were his diabetic armor.

Back to that dream, though.

He had bare feet and stood surrounded by bits of shattered glass.

“Dad! Be careful! Glass! Your feet!” I yelled.

His big, booming laugh drowned out my protestations.

More laughter, then guttural chuckles.

And then I woke up, his words still rippling across the room.

“Ah, Jenn! Don’t you know that I’ve figured this shit out? All of you, every single one of you, will have a charmed life. I’ll make damn sure of it.”

And no, he isn’t asking our permission.