My Father's Eyes

Part of the glory of summertime is that I have a bit of extra time in the morning. E’s camp starts later, the sun is up earlier and the combination means that there is more time for reading the paper, for writing, for staring out the window.

The other morning, I was focusing on the staring out the window activity when I heard the cackling song of a cardinal. I found him over on the neighbor’s clothes line, regally perched next to the underpants.

Cardinals always make me think of my father. In his retirement, he set up a bird feeder in the back yard. Well, several feeders. Having squirrels eat food intended for the birds drove him nuts, so he went through many models of bird feeders. He finally settled on one complex contraption where the squirrels would climb all over it, fall off, and leave without so much as a sunflower seed. Foiled again. He loved it.

But it was the cardinal that brought him the most joy. He called the cardinal The Chairman. “Chairman at the feeder!” he’d call out, reaching for his field glasses. On good days, Mrs. Chairman would visit at the same time as her husband. The cardinals, the squirrels, all were part of this small little world that he created and loved, and oversaw while he was staring out his own window.

When my father died, the cardinal became a symbol of his spirit, which represented him perfectly. His elegance, his manner, his charm. In the early days after his death, I’d look everywhere for a cardinal siting, some sign that we was still present, still with us.

That was twenty years ago, but as I watched the cardinal on the clothes line last week, I once again felt the ache of missing my father. He died when I was 29. I’m now 49, so the balance of years lived with him on the earth and years without him on the earth is beginning its shift toward the without column.

There is so much of my life that has happened without him. He died without knowing my husband, without meeting my child. Without seeing me become the person I was meant to be. It’s a beautiful life I have here, filled with such goodness. I just wish that some how he could sit with me at my table for a while and I could share it with him, in person. I wish he could see how the story turned out.


That’s why the regal cardinal holds so much important to me. It’s some physical representation that he’s here, he’s seeing all the goodness and wonder that is my life.

I shared that thought with a friend who had also lost her father. I said they here, part of it all. She agreed, but how? How do you think they can see it? Where does their energy go?

The question gave me pause. Maybe the idea that they can see things, be part of our lives is just a romantic notion that gives us comfort, helps us to move forward in the world without them.

As I was pondering that question, my daughter E made a joke - one of several very sarcastic and very funny jokes she’s been making lately. She cracked herself up, and in her laughter her face filled with joy. It made me think of my father and his humor, how much he would have loved to hear E tell this joke, to see her laugh.

And in my heart, I knew he was a part of it. He was part of it because he helped to make it happen.

The way I live my life, the person that I am is due in large part to him. The way I tell stories, the way I see the world, the humor, the wisdom - all of those qualities were his gifts to me, and are now my gifts to E. Sharing those gifts, making them a part of my life is my way of keeping him alive, of honoring his presence. In doing that, I am helping him to “see” all the ways in which his life lives on.


“Off into separate futures we will go. But we leave parts of ourselves with each other. I am part of everyone I have ever known and loved, So are you. So are we all. “
--Barbara Crafton