My Father’s Job

*Opening

Somewhere out in cyberspace, probably on the desktop of a computer or stuck up in the Mac iCloud, there is a photograph of me. I am nine-years-old, standing in the lobby of the Wilmette gymnastics Academy in Northbrook, IL.

My face is covered with sweat beads to convey the 3-hour practice I endured long before the photo was taken, and my hair hangs below my shoulders, escaping the pain of a “high and tight” bun. The bright purple glow of my leotard shows through, barely. Regardless of whether the object was the most important contributor to my gymnastics career, it is the last thing that eyes go to in this photo. Instead, the highlight of the photo is the t-shirt that I am wearing over the leotard. A bright blue, Limited Too shirt with the words, “Daddy’s #1 Girl” engraved in tiny white rhinestones.

I can remember so little from the early days of my gymnastics career - so little from the days of being nine-years-old - but I will never forget that photo. Truthfully, I haven’t thought about it in years. Until now, when I sat down to write this.

***

As a young girl, I remember waiting for my father to come home from work at night. I would sit with the baby-sitter at the foot of our door anxiously waiting to hear the slamming of the car door signaling to me that the day had been harder than anticipated, or for the sound of content voices as he spoke to his mother through the phone.

Then, the door would open.

*Closing

***

Unlike the other girls on my gymnastics team, I didn’t have a father who came to every meet from his daily activities of coaching golf or being a realtor. I was far luckier than that. I had a father who kept me at the edge of my seat questioning whether he would make it to the “meeting” he and I had scheduled for that evening. I had a father who put his work first, but who also put his family first. I had a father who was the best of father’s, because no matter what, he made sure I knew he would be there: even if his presence laid within two small coins and a heart-shaped box given to me at my first big gymnastics competition.

As I sit here writing this piece, the same object catches my eye as it does every other day of the week when I dive into my writing. It is a small, heart-shaped box that sits on my desk just beneath my white office lamp to the right of my notepad.

And while I can’t be certain - for I have not seen my father’s office desk - I presume its location is right where he would want it to be. The same place that I suspect a paperweight lies on his desk at work, making sure all his work remains orderly, ensuring his focus.