interested Canadian

Last night, I stood in a ballroom full of people and got applauded alongside some powerhouse women from across the state. I wore a suit and smartwatch. My nails were done, hair freshly highlighted by a woman who books out weeks in advance, and I sipped an overpriced cup of iced coffee for a boost of energy before I walked in. All I could think about was my dad and wonder what he’d think. He owned two watches — the gold one he got from his job to celebrate one of nearly five decades of service to the company, and a Tissot, the fancy one returned to me by the funeral home director. His nails were always dirty and his suit of choice was the nicer leather jacket, the one I still breathe in sometimes when I really miss his hugs. He went to the same barber for years and wore hats any time he could. He drank the $1 coffee from a nearby gas station every drive into work before dawn. He never stood in a ballroom and had people clap for him. He stood in a factory, wearing thick, elbow-length gloves to protect him from harsh chemicals, in sometimes freezing or sweltering conditions, for a full shift, every weekday — for nearly 47 years. My dad only called in sick a handful of times in his entire career. He would come home with stains all over his clothes and shoes so dirty they shouldn’t have been allowed in the house, and sometimes he had a bad cough or limped from the ache in his feet, too, but he almost never called in sick. In the 90s, he decided to help adopt this little girl who just lost her mom and needed a good dad. I mean, really pause and think about that for a second. Here’s this guy, a pro billiards player with a ‘77 Chevy Nova, the skill to charm any room and a truly brilliant mind…and he decides to play dad for some kid whose mom might’ve been murdered? That was my dad. Not only would he make it in to work early every morning, he always made me breakfast before he did. Before therapy was a thing, he got me a dog and a bike, still the two things that can always help on my worst days. He read bedtime stories, learned how to do ponytails and preached the benefits of proper SPF in the summer. He still played pool and drove some fun cars, but he also played Dad pretty well, too. He showed up at every school play, event and soccer game, got into a fight with a campus cop while moving me into a college dorm, took me to every appointment, helped with every project, hated almost every boyfriend and tolerated my endless rambling about every frenemy. He actually kept the 6th grade science fair experiment we worked on together, one of many memories uncovered in his basement long after he died. I used to call Dad after my shift every night, back when I worked retail. He was the only person I knew who was always up late, answered their phone every time and never made me feel worse after a call. Looking back and knowing how hard he worked, I sometimes wonder if he just stayed up late for me. People say I’m lucky I still have some of his voicemails, but all I can think is those were calls I wish I’d answered and can’t ever return. Not that I need voicemails; he’s been gone five years and I can still remember his voice when I close my eyes, but sometimes it’s worth the pain to actually hear his voice again. He was never the CEO of anything and no one ever celebrated his career, but nobody ever inspired me more than my dad. Anyway, it’s late, but I’m looking at leather jackets hanging next to suits and thinking the people who help build us stay with us in little, unexpected ways, so subtle most would never know they’re there — but they’re there. Always.