Missing

 

My father died almost 40 years ago, a day after his 69th birthday. That had been a great day for him. An avid golfer, he had shot his best game ever. That night his birthday cake had plastic figures of golfers decorating it.

My husband is a passionate golfer. In high school almost every spare moment was spent on the golf course. He chose his university more for golfing opportunities than academic reasons. Funding and family prohibited him from following the sport as a career.

My husband and I have been watching the 150 anniversary British Open being played at St. Andrews in Scotland. The course is considered the "Home of Golf." My husband had played it a few years back, fulfilling a life-long dream.

He was intrigued by which club the golfers chose for difficult shots and other technical parts of the game. I loved watching the trajectory lines, Rory Mcilroy's multi-color sole of his sneakers, the beach where Chariots of Fire was filmed, the way the ball seemed to have a mind of its own as it bumped and twisted over the hilly course.

We both marveled at our memories of when he played the course. We spotted our hotel. He could recount which hole had been difficult and why. 

Fortunately, having been raised in a golfing family, I speak golf. I can say birdie, bogey, eagle with the best of them.  

As the two Camerons, Rory and Viktor jockeyed for first place, I had an overwhelming wave of missing my Dad. Grief can fade, but the desire to share with a departed loved one, bounces into our consciousness from time. I wish I could have told my Dad how I've had 17 books published. I'm just as glad I didn't tell him how I renounced my U.S. citizenship. He would be puzzled why I took the nationality of his birth country, but he would have listened and tried to understand.

I know with every cell in my body, my Dad would have loved my husband. I only discovered he didn't like my first husband only after my ex had remarried and there was no chance of a reunion. My Dad didn't like husband No. 1's inconsideration nor his putting me down verbally. Because my new husband would be a gold medal winner in any consideration tournament and speaks only kindness to me, that alone would justify my Dad's approval.

But their shared love of golf would be a bond that had nothing to do with me. I imagined them ohhhing and ahhhing over a putt gone right or a putt gone wrong, a ball landing in a bunker or bush. I could see my husband showing my Dad his hickory clubs, and I'm sure it wouldn't take much to convince my Dad to play a tournament or two. 

In my fantasy, my Stepmom would still be alive and we would accompany them to wherever they were playing. We would site see, stopping at some café for tea and a cake, tarte or cookie. If we were in Scotland, it would be a scone. After we joined up with our men, we would listen to them talk about this shot or that.

Of course, that is not to be. I was quickly transported back to the couch where we sat, Sherlock, our dog, almost asleep between us. For the moment that wasn't, I had the moment that was, something to be treasured in real time.