A few weeks ago I was working at my job as a crew-person for a hot air balloon company. As I stood on the trailer that hauls the balloon and its basket a man whose wife was riding the balloon arrived in the parking lot wearing this shirt:
I leapt off of the trailer and accosted him. "Where did you get that shirt!?" He went on about Hawaii and his friend and blah blah blahing. I interrupted him saying "My father used to design Hawaiian shirts in the '70s, and I'm pretty sure he designed that shirt." He was not very interested but agreed to let me take a picture of his shirt.
We had samples of my father's fabric floating around our house when I was younger, one of which was a tapa design (as this shirt is) that I had hanging over my bed for about five years. I even brought the fabric with me to summer camp and college to hang over my beds away from home.
"You should send that photo to you dad and ask him if he designed it" one of my coworkers said as I climbed back on the trailer.
"I can't" I replied. "He's dead. He just died this past winter."
It is strange telling people that your father died, especially when you are struck so strongly by his presence. I don't remember what they said in response, or if the guy wearing the shirt had heard me--I just kept looking back at him on the blazing pavement, fixed by his shirt and thinking of my father.
The Balloon went up, floating smooth like magic towards the setting sun. It came down the same and I forgot to get a shot of the tag on the fellows shirt. The presence of my father faded into the background and, despite my intentions to tell Amelia and send the photo to my mom, I didn't mention the shirt to anyone,
[Timelapse]
Two days later I was helping Amelia and Chinn install an art show at the Overture Center. Not long after I arrived I was standing on a ladder hanging a piece when a woman walked in wearing this dress:
I jumped off the ladder all babbling about some guys shirt and the fabric and my father and two days ago and I couldn't even believe it! My father came rushing into my heart riding on clothes from the dead. I explained through my confoundment and mouth-a-gapement and we all there in the gallery felt the breeze of the dead stop and settle right there with us. Chinn took this photo of me with stars in my eyes.
Last weekend my mother was in town and I told her the story and showed her the photos. She told me that my father had not designed that fabric, but it was close to ones that he had designed.
I don't really think it matters whether he had or hadn't.
My father will never ride an air balloon.
My father will never again install an art show.
It is me. I have to do these things.
And all the while the universe will wink its secret winks.
At least I pray that it will.
