Blue and Proud

A sense of pride fills me as I watch the men in navy blue march past. I know none of them, but I have my own. I’m blinded for a moment by the light dancing off the shining metals and pins, recognizing several. I remember all his stories from growing up and smile beside myself.

I can see Daddy standing tall, larger than life, towering over his two toddlers. A superhero in deep blue. My eyes scan the lines of his stiff shoulders and straight back. Not as straight as it could be, old football injuries being the limiting factor. The big hat falls over little blue eyes, shading dreams that beam through tough material. A screaming little boy, begging to be risen into the sky by strong arms, arms that forever hold and keep me safe. Safe from bad guys, safe from nightmares, and safe from monsters. Forever there.

Yet when the colors grow more vibrant on lazy days in, the scent of Stouffer's and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches float around my head. Growing up in a house with a diabetic like my father causes things to be different. I grow up knowing words like “reaction” and “insulin,” though the definitions go in one ear and out the other. Definitions grow from “a special medicine for Daddy” into “a hormone made by the pancreas that allows your body to use glucose from carbohydrates to create energy.” I knew the smell a mile away, heard the beeps and buzzes from the insulin pump, and I knew a reaction meant special food and Daddy feeling sick.

Constant worries grew with time. Every few years the hospital was expected, a superhero turning into a degraded figure on a bed. The white of the sheets, the blue dots not dark enough for the navy blue I know on him. A constant beat rings in my ears, growing louder and more deafening with each a blow to my gut.

Years forward and the roles are switched, me sitting with a blanket across my legs, the warmth a failed attempt to soften the sharp edges of chemical cleaners and white backgrounds. Sitting on a hospital bed myself, I watch as the drops roll down his face without a care, seeming to ignore the trail of pain they leave behind. I do nothing but feel helpless and apologetic. The water from his eyes are not blue, they are not what I wish.

Tears from him are never what I expect, what I wish, or what I know. Each time the water shocks me like lightning. My papa’s departure, the pain radiating from those he loves, the water flowing deep into New York as a reminder of his time standing guard at Ground Zero. And each time words failed me, each time they eluded me, and only three words stand out. Only three words come out of my mouth when I see the water. The only three that truly matter.

The three words that we shout across the yard as a thank you while the leaves change and fall, and the piles are made for the sole purpose of scattering them again. The smell of grass clippings and sweat fill my nose as the leaves are picked from my hair with a loving smile. The most fun is working in the dirt, digging here, and sprinkling the little bits and pieces deep down, giving love and care just as Daddy gives us. The three words tumble out of looks and smiles and hugs. I love you.

As times get harder, there is always Daddy. The high school drama makes the world seem sharper, the colors all seem darker, and the pain harder. But his strong arms always hold, his tall stature the softest thing in sight. Always there for me when people become mean. Always there for my little brother when tough love is needed. Always there for the youngest when school work is too much. Always our Daddy. And always loved and loving.