The Empty Jar(8)

Nate smiles, too, resting his temple against his little pillow, content to watch me as I reminisce. “Did he always catch them?”

“Always. And I’d squeal every time, I think.” I can remember with absolute clarity the sight of my father’s hand sweeping in from above to capture the tiny creatures, nudging them gently into the opening until the jar was too full to hold anymore. Now, the memories of doing something so simple with Daddy are just as delightful as the excitement of catching them was when I was a girl.

“What was the rest of the ritual?”

Happily, I recount our every step after that jar was full. “Daddy would take my hand and he’d say, ‘Let’s go get those feet scrubbed up, doodle bug. Time for bed and these little fellas have a job to do.’ Even now, I remember exactly how his calloused palm felt against mine. There was something so comforting about that scratchy hand of his.”

I sigh deeply, my soul filling with a subtle sadness that I haven’t thought of this in so, so long.

“He’d take me inside, to the bathroom—it had this awful avocado colored sink and toilet—and he’d plunk me down on the lip of the tub while he got the water just the right temperature. When he did, he’d loop his arm around my waist and pull me down to him. He’d make this vroom noise like a car going really fast. I think I giggled every night when he did that. Every. Night.”

A knot begins to throb at the base of my throat. Memories of my father are all I have left, all I’ve had for a long time. And even though I haven’t retold this one, it’s as precious and clear as if it just happened. Just as precious and clear as everything else about my father.

“What was the big deal about having clean feet?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. He just didn’t want me going to bed with dirty feet.”

“Interesting. Okay, sorry. Go on.”

“Daddy would tuck me against his chest and wrap his arms around me, press his scruffy cheek up against mine, and he’d lather his hands with soap. We always had this pink soap that smelled like flowers and bleach, but even over that scent, I could smell him. My dad. He smelled like smoke and pine. Like love,” I declare on a laugh. “At least that’s how I always thought of it.”

“So that’s what love smells like,” Nate observes, a playful quirk tugging at one side of his mouth.

“Yes. Love smells like my father. You should write that down.”

We grin at each other, falling easily into the lighthearted humor we’ve shared from practically our first meeting, over nineteen years ago.

“Duly noted. Now, proceed.”

I turn my eyes up, toward the airplane ceiling, looking at the seatbelt light, but not really seeing it. I dive back to my childhood, swimming in remembrance with all my senses, basking in those memories.

“When his hands were pink and foamy, he’d reach down and pick up one of my feet and he’d scrub the bottom until the lather turned green. He’d even get in between my toes, and you know how ticklish I am.” From the corner of my eye, I can see Nate nodding enthusiastically. “As he washed my feet, he’d tell me stories about where the lightning bugs came from, how far they’d traveled to get to me.”

“I bet these came all the way from California,” Daddy would say. “They laid low all day long, storing up that bright sunshine in their bellies until they could fly through the sky and make it to our backyard in time for you to find them.”

“God, he was charming! I hung on his every word. And he knew it. He knew I loved every second of it. It was our thing. I guess since Janet was so sick most of the time, he had never been able to do things like that with her. Or at least I don’t remember it if he did. Catching lightning bugs was always our thing.”

My childhood was littered with heartache and sickness. When I was too young to recall, my older sister, Janet, was diagnosed with acute lymphocytic leukemia. Childhood leukemia. She was sick for as long as I can remember. Our lives had revolved around Janet—her prognosis, her medications, her doctors appointments. Keeping her healthy. Getting her better.

Only she didn’t get better.

She died when I was only six.

That had been blow number one to our family.

“So your father hated dirty feet and gave elaborate backstories to the local insect population. I’m getting a mental picture.”

I reach over to lightly smack Nate’s arm. “Stop it. He was a wonderful man.”

“That’s a given. Look at his daughter. He couldn’t have been anything less than wonderful.” Nate’s eyes take on that warm, loving sheen that stole my heart nearly twenty years ago. I’d known the instant he’d fallen in love with me. It was there, on his face, plain for all the world to see.

Just like it is now.

If I could bottle that look, I would. I would eat it, drink it bathe in it. I’d breathe it in through my pores, draw it into my cells. I’d soak it up until it became a part of me, an inextricable part of me. I’d drown in it until I could feel it with every breath I took. Until I couldn’t see or hear or feel anything else. That’s how much I love that look.

“I wish you could’ve met him. He’d have loved you.”

“I do, too, baby. I do, too.”

Nate reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. Such a simple gesture, but such a profound one sometimes. It speaks volumes to me. It tells me of our inseparable bond, of Nate’s compassion for my loss, of his appreciation for a man he never knew. It reminds me that he loves me so deeply that he often feels my pain as if it were his own. I know this because I do the same thing. That’s why I worry so much about the future. I know how it will affect my husband.