The First "Other" In My Life

I've just started reading "Fatherless Women" by Clea Simon. It was sent to me by a good friend. I've only just made it past the first 20 or so pages, but I'm finding it poignant and helpful, if not frightening. Being so close to the brink of my father's death, Clea's book comes 8 years following her own father's death. I'm wondering if I'm too "young" in the process to be reading it, to be able to fully absorb it. We shall see.

There was a perfect description in the book that has been ringing with me all weekend. The concept that the father is the first "other" in a young girl's life. It never occurred to me that way before, but truly, my dad was the first other person in my life. Clearly I was well-connected to my mother. Even though a pun is not intended, the literalness of the umbilical cord connection is hard to ignore.

My mom was clearly first. And my father was the first other person I met, the first other person who also loved me unconditionally, the first other person who was there for every major event. I'm sure I saw that big old moustache every day of my babyhood. I heard his voice, his music. I smelled his breath, his sweat. I avoid being around smokers, but I still like the smell of Winston cigarettes.

After the funeral, at my mom's house, I ran up to my old bedroom, where my dad had spent his last functional days, frantically smelling the pillow and his clothes hanging in the closet. The cold air had long drawn out any of his scent. Illusions were all I had left. I cried into the arms of his myriad jean shirts. Fucking A.

He looms large. And larger still with each passing day. I'm interested to explore this book more. I'm hoping to brings me closer to him and closer to the point of all this crap I'm feeling. I wish I had more to say, but I'm here. I'm tired, drained really, and just happy enough to be typing.