I Love You, Ciao

"Hello?" I questioned into the receiver of the phone, holding it delicately between my shoulder and right ear as I continued to draw absentmindedly on a blank sheet of paper.

"Hey Squirt!"

"Hey dad," I spoke again, this time with more informality. "How're you?"

"Oh, I’m hanging in there," he laughed cynically. "What're you up to?"

"Nothin much," I told him generically. "Just hanging out."

"Really?" he mused. "So, when you hang, do you literally hang?"

"No, Dad," I replied, getting slightly aggravated.
Something that simple, that unearthly weird, shouldn't have irritated me, yet it did. Not only had I heard that many times before, I had heard many different variations of that question before.

"Huh," he shot back. "'Cause I was starting to think about that. If you were to hang, either your fingers or toes would grow completely disproportionate to the rest of your body." He was trying, desperately, to be funny.

I sighed and gave him a short, snippy response, "Yup, this is true."

After that was said, a moment of awkward silence fell. That's when I always felt bad for the tense answers. It was then that I realized that I shouldn't be so mean.

"So, Dad-"
"So, what's-"
If the silence wasn't bad enough, we both spoke at the same time, then felt dumb for doing so.

"You go first-"
"Go ahead-"
I waited thirty seconds to show him that I was going to let him speak first and I'd hold my tongue until my time to answer rolled around.

"So, anything new?" my dad asked, an odd edge to his voice.

"Um, nothing really. I'm going to hang out with friends this Saturday," I told him honestly, trying to reverse the ass like tone that I had with him earlier. "How about yourself?"

"Nothing much," he stole my generic response. "Just, the MS is kicking my ass. Haven't been able to do much."

I was never sure what to say after he brought up his MS. I felt really bad that he had it…but I felt even worse knowing that there was nothing I could do about it.

Multiple sclerosis…what can I say about it? It's a nasty disease that does nothing for the person it inhabits. It's nothing like the flu or a cold that makes you miserable for a day or two. Nope, this disgusting, life altering disease attacks your muscles. If you're lucky, it strikes you gently and lays low your whole life. But, if you're not one of the fortunate few who get the mild case, you could very well end up with a severe case. One as severe as my fathers.

Not only does this wretched disease affect your muscles, causing them to slowly deteriorate and stop working all together, but it makes just living hard.
It makes you look at stairs way differently. Going up them is no longer a monotonous, routine task. Oh no, it's now become a struggle. It's hot outside? Well, now you're in trouble. Now you don't get to go anywhere because. You. Can't. Walk.

Apparently, my father took my silence exactly as I felt; odd and unsure. "Well, I've got to go. I've got laundry to be done. I'll talk to you later. Auf Weidersein."

"Austa Lavista!" I chuckled into the phone.

"Adios," he said back.

"Ciao," I smiled, even though he couldn't see.
I waited until I could heard my father hang up the phone before I hit end and set the phone back in it's cradle

Ciao
The last word I ever spoke to my father.
It wasn't "I love you". Nope, it was goodbye. Ironic, really.
It was the last thing that anyone ever said to my father.

&&

"Now, we have one more person who would like to say a few words about this beloved uncle, son, and most importantly, father. Amanda, could you come up here, please?" that was my cue from the priest that I was supposed to go up there and say something about my dad.

I tried really hard to swallow the lump that was in my throat before I squeezed my mother's hand, and walked the few short steps up to the front of the church.

I couldn't look into the casket before I had to give a speech. Had I done that, there'd be no way that I'd be able to say anything.

"I'm not really sure how to start this," I admitted, wiping away my tears and forcing myself not to start bawling again.

I looked out into the rows of pews and saw many people. Some of the guys he used to work with, some of my great aunts and uncles as well as my aunts and uncles, my cousins and my grandparents.

But most importantly, I saw my sister and my mom. Both of whom sat in the front row along with me.
My mom, having divorced my dad, still showed up to pay her respects. I had to give my parents credit, they got along just fine for a couple of divorcee's.

And my sister. My dad and my sister were always closer than I was with my dad, and I envied her for that. But today, she wouldn't talk. She refused to come up here and make a speech about our dad. Said it was "too damn painful" and what a load of shit that was. She just didn't want to worry about embarrassing herself. But she was here. She was here, and I had to give her credit for that.

"Knowing my dad, he wouldn't want everyone to be so down. He'd be the one that would be sitting in the back row, heckling whoever was up here right now. 'Come on, Amanda! You can do better than that!'he'd say," I heard a few pitiful chuckles from people who truly knew my dad.
"He'd want us to be listening to music, some of his favorite, most definitely. Maybe some Metallica, maybe some Guns N Roses, or maybe some The Used. My dad was all about music. If you had it playing, he'd sit and listen to it, or at least give it a chance. No matter what it was. Unless it was screaming. I would quote him on that, but being fifteen, I don't think I should and the fact that we're in a church also restricts me from doing so. My dad was the one who really encouraged my sister and I to pick up a guitar, or sit down at the piano, grab a microphone, or cradle your viola.
"Oh, and my father was always one to make sure that you followed your dreams, no matter what. My sister always has her guitar with her, and my father would always listen to new songs that she made. And when it comes to me, he'd always be giving me new ideas on what to write. Of course, he was so understanding. He'd say "You don't have to show me what you write. Do it for your benefit, but if one day, you do want to show me, I'll be more than happy to read it."
"My dad is a man that will forever be engrained in your memory, even if you only talked to him for a minute while he was picking up his prescriptions. If you had ears, he'd be cracking a joke. Whether you laugh at it or not is a whole different story. He was the guy that loved to make people question his sanity.
"My father was one of the most non-material people I have ever known. Give him some string, some paper, a pencil, and an eraser and he's set for a long time. I think part of that got passed on to me. And for that I’m thankful. My dad was always trying to keep us in check; remind us that not having everything is a bad thing."

By this point, I summoned up enough courage to look over at my father. His sleek hair was laying around his head after it extended out from his ponytail, the way he would've wanted it to be. I choked back yet another sob that was threatening to release itself.

"So dad, in honor of you, I've decided to play one of the many songs that you loved. Here's Poetic Tragedy by The Used. This song goes out to my dad for his kindheartedness, his unconditional love for his family, his lighthearted ways, and his encouragement and empowerment."

I finally let loose. I bawled my way back to my seat, trying to keep my crying inaudible at the same time.
As soon as I was in arm's reach, my mom had engulfed me in her arms, repeating over and over again calming words. Although, those words had no effect on me.

When the funeral in the church was done with, we all headed to the cemetery to watch my father be lowered six feet under. I never thought I could cry so much in one day.

When people came up to me to tell me that they were sorry for my loss and that they understood what I was going through, I disregarded their words, knowing that those were general statements that were dusted off and brought off the shelf for occasions such as a funeral.

I would never hear my dad's stupid jokes that I got frustrated with, again. I would never hear his laugh again, or never see the look of awe in his eyes when I'd play piano for him.
I'd never get to have him walk me down the isle to my husband-to-be. I'd never have him around to see his grandchildren play baseball in the nearby park.

At fifteen years old, my father was gone, never to come back. Just like that.
And the last word I ever said to him was ciao.

-15 years later-

"Hi Dad," I spoke to a concrete tombstone.
"I miss you. A lot. I, um, I wanted to tell you that I finally got married. His name is Johnny Seward. He's really sweet, dad. I wish you could meet him, I think you'd like him: he's in a band. He's here today with our son, Derek Matthew. He's turning three in a week. Can you believe it? I'm no longer Amanda Lassmason. I'm Amanda Seward and have a child! Jeez dad, I wish you could see your grandson. I hope you're doing okay, wherever you are. I never really got to tell you that I love you, but I do. I really do. I'll never forgive myself for not saying it on the last phone call. Goodbye, Dad. I love you."

With that, I placed my index and middle fingers to my lips and then set both fingers on the top of my dad's tombstone.

"Momma?" Derek questioned, walking towards me with a curious expression on his innocent face. "Who that?"

"That’s Grandpa, Der," I told him.

"But we just seen grampa!" Derek protested.

"No, bud," Johnny told him, walking up to us. "That was Grandpa Seward. This is Grandpa Lassmason."

Derek was still trying to figure things out, but eventually gave up.

After a few more minutes of peace and quiet by my dad's grave, Johnny, Derek and I started to walk back to the car.

I was about to hop into the passenger seat when Johnny stopped me. Once he had Derek buckled into his car seat in the back and closed the door, Johnny laid a kiss on my forehead.

"Are you okay, babe?" he asked me, knowing full well that it was the exact day of my father's death. I hadn't noticed the tears that had streaked their way down my face until then.

"Yeah, um, yeah, yeah, I'm good," I lied.

Knowing full well that I was lying, Johnny pulled me into a tight embrace and held me there for a few minutes. When he pulled away, he was left with a giant, black wet spot on his shoulder from my salty tears and my eye makeup.

"Let's go home, babe," he told me softly, quickly kissing my lips before he opened my door for me.

When I was completely in and Johnny was inside, we started off to our house, going to get settled to pass the day away with as minimal drama as possible.

I threw my head back against the headrest and let out a sigh. Looking into the side mirror, I saw Derek fully asleep, so I let out a heart wrenching sob.
Hearing this, Johnny grabbed hold of my left hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I love you," he told me.
I knew the effects of not saying I love you, and I wasn't about to go through all of this again.

"I love you, too."