Happy Father’s Day To Dr. Thomas Decker

In celebration of Father's Day on Sunday June 17, we asked Patch readers to write a letter to their father and let us deliver it. This is Christen Kadkhodai's letter to her dad:

Dad,

Your grandson asked to talk to you on the phone today, but I informed him that you are sleeping on the other side of the globe in Portsmouth, NH. It’s difficult explaining time zones to a small child; I can barely wrap my own head around it. I talk a little about the sun and the earth’s orbit, but my 4-year-old hears “blah blah blah” and talks over me, insisting you must be awake because he is.

It’s funny because you already talked to him today, though your image wasn’t exactly clear on our video call. Your grandson scurried away with my phone to be alone with you, his “Gid.” You showed him the garden you just planted. It’s hard to believe it is spring when it is getting so cold here in Canberra, Australia.

We’ve lived many countries apart for many years now, but never this far away. I want to tell my son it’s hard for me too. So many times things come up during your night, Dad, that I want to tell you during my day: something about Tom Wolfe dying; something funny the kids said; or how I finally listened to that Linda Ronstadt album you recommended a couple of months ago. I should write it down, but I forget. I forget a lot of things these days. I blame it on “Mom Brain.”

Some things are unforgettable, though. I remember going through a breakup in college, coming to you in tears after he had just broken it off. The boyfriend wasn’t someone you particularly liked. “You’re going to have a lot of significant relationships in your life, Christen,” you said, “but this guy? This loss isn’t registering on my Richter scale. How about yours?”

I live off of memories like that, Dad, when I miss you, or something is registering on my Richter scale that should be just another bump in the road of adulthood. And then there are memories that have no words but I see in slow motion. The Father-Daughter Valentine’s Day Dance at the Old Connie Bean Center. I remember the patent leather shoes I wore, us tripping over bubbles in that massive rubber floor they used to duct tape down on the basketball court. You danced with me, even though I really don’t think you like dancing much.

You’ve danced with me my whole life. You danced with me at an engagement party when I married into an Iranian-American family. It was just the two of us on the dance floor in front of a room full of one of the finest dancing cultures in the world. It was intimidating, but you just threw your hands up and went with it. You danced with me to “Unforgettable” at my wedding too, though ironically I can’t even be sure that’s the song we settled on. There are only so many acceptable father-daughter wedding songs to play, and even for two people with a shared love of music, none of them were “ours.”

Do you remember that time in Guatemala when we spent the week exploring old churches and macadamia farms, and all I could think about, all I could talk about, was my anxiety about becoming a mother of two? I remember when you said goodbye after that week, Dad. That particular parting was hard. In my profession and in all of the places I’ve lived and worked, they don’t tell you how the goodbyes get harder with time.

I remember the way you hugged me before you left for your flight in the middle of that tropical paradise. There was you, me and my enormous belly between us — and macaws squawking in the distance. Remember the macaws?

“Goodbye. I love you,” you whispered into my hair. “Don’t forget the girl from the North Country.”

Bob Dylan’s “Girl from the North Country” is one of the songs we can’t dance to, Dad, but belongs to us. Is it weird that we talk in lyrics?

“…if you go when the snowflakes storm/ When the rivers freeze and summer ends,” I say to you. “Please see if she’s wearing a coat so warm/ To keep her from the howling winds,” you smile.

There are those tears again. Bob Dylan, we can both agree, has a terrible voice but, God, what a musician, what a lyricist.

So Happy Father’s Day to you, Dad, from cold Canberra. And Happy 70th Birthday too, while I’m at it. I can never repay you for what you have given to me, a gift I have come to see as one of my life’s greatest treasures; the love of a good father. A love that has made me trusting and open to the world, to be hurt in ways that did and did not register on my Richter scale, and most importantly, to love with every chamber of my heart, always beating true as “A Girl From the North Country.” I love you, Dad.

—Christen Kadkhodai

See all Father's Day letters here.

Image Credit: Christen Kadkhodai