Croi (Gaelic: Heart)

We remember.

My elbows rested on the wide sill as he walked down the sidewalk with the sun behind him. This is my first memory of the man who would teach me my first lessons about love. As a little girl, I knew he liked to smile, and he did that with his eyes. It was evident that he experienced a profound sense of happiness and pride in being the father of three daughters. And I knew he loved my mother. These were my first truths.

I loved waking up at sunrise and seeing him in the kitchen slicing very thin potatoes for breakfast. As he took my order, he laughed at the fact my tiny self already had strong opinions about how my eggs should look on the plate, and he served them cooked to perfection.

There was some trouble in the house and frankly, it had to do with his out-of-control drinking. He never lost sight of who he was fundamentally, although this issue did stand in the way of his potential. He remained forever gentle and in love with his family.

Marilyn and Richie officially divorced when I was eight. Looking back, I knew this meant something serious, but what that was exactly was lost on me. Richie was affectionately called RJ by my mother, who smiled at this memory in her 80s long after he passed. It was never a surprise to hear his footsteps entering our apartment. Often on Sunday afternoons after a meal, he’d sit on the couch with his long legs stretched out and watch TV. He loved ordering take-out and sitting with all of us at the table, making jokes throughout dinner and hearing us laugh. He would bring my mother ice cream whenever she craved it. This brought him so much joy.

As I grew older, I became more aware of his difficulties, and it made all of us very frustrated and sad. We recognized him as a man with considerable tact and a kind heart. He had traditional sentimental values and expressed his philosophy through his actions. He was exceptionally patient and would listen to my teenage conversations without a sermon. I knew what to expect by watching his face. When he was amused, I’d see a left-leaning smile and when he wasn’t happy with me, his eyes would sharpen in my direction, and he’d start with “Linda Ann…”. Most of the time when he addressed me like that, little else needed to follow.

As his struggles worsened, he was less available, but he let us know he carried me, my sister Colleen, and my sister Nancy in his heart every day. “And you know I love your mother…” his voice would trail off. My mother first saw him in the 50s at the train station. She reminisced a lot over the years about those early days. She would describe his leather jacket and dark wavy hair every time she spoke about it. My father talked about my mother as though he was swept off his feet for the first time after decades of knowing her. Their relationship was bittersweet. My mother found issues with every man she dated. Her daughters thought she didn’t understand love. She met many people during her years as a single woman. In her final hours, she mentioned my father and expressed regret about not staying with him. It was an indication of true love. We were so very wrong about her. Looking back, we believe she was always in search of a man like Richard. He was unmatched.

My father never spoke negatively about my mother. Not to us, not to other family members, and not to friends. Not ever. He was a man who embodied all things love. He saw her weaknesses like he saw his own and never faulted her for them. He didn’t entertain my complaints about her either. He was my best teacher. He demonstrated an exceptional life through his actions rather than words.

Born on May 6, 1934, our dad would be 91 years old today. Significant changes have occurred over the years; his hometown has grown into a city, he would have a place by the ocean to visit, and his daughters learned to cook. He would have gotten a real kick out of all of that.

He is remembered year-round, notably during special moments: when the snow melts and the sun warms up as the runners participate in the Boston Marathon, during the summer when fried clams are served in a paper bowl under an umbrella's shade, and particularly in November when Dad’s Stuffing is prepared, ensuring the perfect balance of ingredients, primarily Bells Seasoning, salt, and pepper, through multiple taste tests between Colleen and me. That stuffing recipe is celebrated, and his daughters say it’s the highlight of the holiday meal.

One day my father told me about the phoenix that rose out of the ashes, symbolizing rebirth and renewal. This meant something to him and even after all this time, it’s an important memory to me. It is the essence of hope.

Because at the end of the day, we are all just phoenixes, rising from our own ashes, taking flight to an unknown destination, our wingtips forged by flames. ~L.J. Shen

Happy birthday, Dad.