It's been over 20 years since I last saw my father...
And us living countries apart (he lives in Jamaica) is not the reason.
I blamed my parents' divorce.
I judged him as a husband and a father.
The first five years without seeing him, I was filled with a lot of hurt and anger.
Then forgiveness came.
Then we slowly started communicating over the phone.
Within the last year or so, I knew it was time to see him again.
Twenty-two years later.
I couldn't sleep.
The questions wouldn't stop.
Would I call him, "Dad?"
That word felt so strange coming out of my mouth.
Would we hug?
Would I cry?
Would it be awkward?
How would we spend the day?
What would we talk about?
I realize now that all that anxiety was for nothing.
The moment had arrived.
I spotted him in the lobby of our hotel well before he saw me.
I took a minute to take it all in.
I recognized him right away with his head full of gray.
And then all the nervousness and anxiety sort of ... went away.
I walked towards him.
And then he saw me.
We walked towards each other and embraced.
It wasn't one of those reunions you see on TV where people emphatically hug and then start crying.
It was just a quiet hug, not tight at all, but a hug nonetheless.
And then he stared at me for a few minutes.
He couldn't take his eyes off me.
It was almost like he was in disbelief.
I understood.
It had been 22 years.
It was surreal.
We all greeted each other.
Sisters and brother, and father, reunited.
Buddy Roller met his other grandfather.
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And I saw my dad again.
Over two decades later.
It wasn't awkward.
It was authentic.
And I'm glad it happened.
He and Buddy Roller got along fabulously.
Talking, playing, and laughing.
It was a good sight to see.
I don't know what the future holds.
The distance between us doesn't help.
My dad has no interest in coming to the states.
But I do know we will keep in touch.
We have already spoken several times since our reunion.
I realize now that I distanced myself from my father because talking to him would mean betraying my mother.
That my mother's anguish and heartache would not be acknowledged.
Understand that my mother never told me not to talk to my father.
It was my own unspoken rule.
In fact, over the years she fully supported me when I told her I was going to call him or make plans to see him.
It all kind of seems so trivial now.
But twenty years ago, I didn't feel that way.
Funny how things turn out.
Funny how feelings change.
Funny how life is.
I cried three times while in Jamaica.
The first time was right after I was reunited with my dad.
I had stepped away to get him some water to drink.
I had a moment to myself and I got emotional.
How could I not?
The second time I cried was when he left after our day together.
I didn't know when I would see him again.
It felt like such a high to see him and then a low when he had to leave.
And the third time I cried was the morning of the day we were flying back to Atlanta.
I got up early and went for a morning swim on the beach all by myself.
I wanted some time to be on the beach...alone...to think...to reminisce.
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The trip was a great one.
All the goals that were set, were accomplished.
My emotions were all over the place.
I was sad to be leaving the country of my birth.
Sad to be leaving my past.
Sad to be leaving my dad.
We had just met again after all these years.
I realized, too, that the beach is such a big part of what makes me happy.
It makes sense.
My mom brought me to the beach every weekend as a child.
It's in my blood.
A part of who I am.
I will miss it dearly.
And then the tears came...
In retrospect, it's unfortunate it took this long to see my father.
I have missed many years I can never get back.
But the past is in the past.
No use crying over spilled milk, right?
We can only move forward.
No matter what happens, I'm glad we had this time together.
And I'm hopeful for what the future holds.
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