Joie De Vivre

I’m a small curly-haired child with sunburn on the apples of my freckled cheeks walking through the freshly cut suburban grass in a Long Island backyard. I pass the propane barbecue where someone else’s dad mans the grill and dig my toes into the wet mud by the foot of the pool. The familiar smell of charred meat tingles my nose. Behind me, my sisters are leaping off the diving board into a crowded deep end filled with children connected through their parents’ tenuous friendships. Kids who don’t realize their shared summer holidays are dwindling.

I reach the concrete patio where a table is topped with a citronella candle and potato chips, checkered with empty bottles of light beer. This is an “adult table”. These tables are boring for kids unlike me. I loved to hear the boundless banter of parents in the freedom of drunk company and often found excuses to linger in their presence, pressing my finger pads into the diamond-shaped holes of the rubber-coated green table. I craved my dad’s attention, always yelling for him to watch what I could do. Dad, time me running to the fence and back! Dad, watch me flip into the pool! Dad, listen to my knock-knock joke! Look at this! Look at me! Be proud of me, dad!!!

I hear my dad is telling a story. He looks almost pained with thick veins crawling from his neck, and skin reddening, as he tries to keep it together before he gets to the punchline. I place my hand on his hairy, tanned arm. “One second hunny,” he says, with a wide smile still plastered to his face. His audience is on the edges of their seats wondering if he’ll still be able to nail the ending, despite my interruption. 

His smile is luminous. It emanates from the corners of his eyes in a way that cannot be faked; pure, yet almost nostalgic. His smile sometimes inexplicably made me feel like crying. It’s the smile of his father and his father’s father. Where did that smile begin? Who had it first? Centuries ago, someone’s face cracked open at the joy of life. Considered a desirable trait, it traveled through people, through time, making its way through evolution to my father. And now, to me. A gift and a burden.

He cackles through the final words – you almost have to strain to hear him – tears bursting happily from his eyes. He has them gripped. In just a few years, there will be divorce, families moved, disagreements unsettled, death. But for right now, everyone is happy and present and warm. 

That is my dad’s superpower. 

I laugh, not at the joke, which sails gently over my head, but because I cannot not laugh when he laughs. 

“Are there any jars to catch lightning bugs?” I eventually manage. 

A question that feels like everything and nothing. An admittance of the youth I didn’t want. An invitation for the adults to marvel at what they created.

Kids who just want to hold onto a little life and watch it light up.

Kids who want to run on the damp grass in thoughtless bikinis chasing elusive fireflies, full of wonder.

Kids who don’t yet understand that their dads will die.