Dad’s breath grew erratic and ragged. He drew one last, long
burst of air and pushed it out, exhausted and spent. That was it.
Dad was gone.
This gentle, wry man—the one who showed me the numbers
running throughout our entire lives—was gone.
From him, I learned that numbers are everywhere, pulling order out of chaos. Say, for
example, the geospatial trajectory of a BB shot through the air by a malicious
brother.
Numbers were in the kitchen when I asked Dad a cooking
question, like how many cups were in a gallon. “Pint’s a pound, world around,”
he’d respond, matter-of-factly. Beneath those words, layers of equations and
calculations would produce the answer I needed (16).
Numbers
were with me even when Dad wasn’t. In gym class, I mentally graphed my
deceleration as that Presidential Fitness mile wore on—an exponential
curve with speed along the y-axis and time over the x-axis.
In second grade, I caught hell for using the top of my desk to track the ratio of times the teacher called on girls versus boys. Sitting at that desk over recess, scrubbing away the carefully penciled charts and graphs, remains a vivid childhood memory.
In second grade, I caught hell for using the top of my desk to track the ratio of times the teacher called on girls versus boys. Sitting at that desk over recess, scrubbing away the carefully penciled charts and graphs, remains a vivid childhood memory.
The moment after Dad took his last breath, his empty shell
lying on the bed, the numbers were silent. No equation could graph our pain.
I grappled behind me for something, anything solid, and
found Charles. I turned into him, buried my face on his shoulder and sobbed as
he held me tightly.
My Charles. He was there with my family that whole horrible
week. He took shifts like the rest of us, staying up with Dad, plying him with
morphine. He ran errands, made phone calls, smoothed ruffled feathers. He
stroked my back and held my hand.
In the days following Dad’s death, Charles was there. He
pooled music for my dad’s wake and funeral. He brokered peace between brothers
at the funeral home. He made sure my mother ate, helped hustle her out of the
house when she would have lingered indeterminately, and corralled all the
paperwork needed for the business of death.
On the day of the funeral, we sat in a straight line in the
front pew of the church—all fixed points in a cruel equation of life balanced
with loss.
Charles pulled the eulogy he wrote from the pocket of his
suit jacket and walked up to the stage. Numbly, I sat, holding my mother's
hand. Charles began talking about the strong and quiet man my father was. Suddenly,
we heard a catch in his voice.
Then, a sob.
Two weeks of attending to our grief, and my husband had
forgotten about his own. All that time, he was anything and everything my
family needed. He did it all without fanfare, blending into the background of
grief. But his pent-up emotion would no longer be set aside.
Suddenly, the numbers snapped into focus. I could see a
graph for how I’d loved my husband (y-axis)
over time (x-axis). Far from a
straight line, the points on this graph jumped around, snuck up on me, surprised me. This
moment in time soared above the rest, as Charles grieved for my father and I
saw my husband for the man he was—for me, for all of us.
Charles was still crying. Everyone sat, silent and waiting.
I jumped out of my seat and onto the stage. I hugged
my husband, took his hand, and looked down at his notes. I began to read, “For Dad,
God was in the numbers.”
