Oh yeah? Well, my Dad is 12 feet tall.

I used to work with a lady at Cambridge U.P. named Ana-Claudia. She told great stories- the one about her and her mother’s secret language was my favorite. On the subway one day, at age 7 or so, A-C asked, “Hey Mom, what’s a vagina?” She posed it loudly, freely, feeling secure in their blanket of secret syntax and vocabulary. Some people in the car burst out laughing and A-C’s mother told her to hush. “But why?” asked A-C, not understanding despite the “hush” and the laughter, “this is only ours. No one knows what we’re saying, silly.” Turns out the “secret language” was Spanish.

My Dad and I have a secret language- as complex as Spanish- constructed over time by fights, contentment and trying to know each other instead of just be related to each other. It’s mostly a language of cadence and tones. We communicate in the downbeats between “okay” and “well.” When I’m sad especially, he locates my rhythms and beats back his own in a “so” and a pause, then a question. He’s like a heart monitor or a vibrating locust.

Sunday night, I washed my face in tears. They were stress tears and left red streaks down my cheeks like a too-strong astringent. So what’s the big deal? I cry all the time- happy tears like spritzer, angry tears like pop rocks or lightning, nostalgic tears like happy tears but milky, sad tears, frustrated tears, oh man it’s only Tuesday tears- seriously, all the time. The big deal this time was that the tears accomplished nothing. Usually, crying allows me to acknowledge things and leave them; the tears tip their hats to the emotion or cause of emotion and walk on with a, “Good day.” Two days ago, though, I sat in tears, in a cluttered apartment, in the midst of moving and throwing things I loved away and so when my Dad called, I paused, sniffed, waited and lilted while saying I was fine, really fine, no problem here, just fine. I sounded competent and sturdy like an oak bookcase- an oak bookcase anchored to a wall!- when really I was a nylon with a run. I very much like being self-sufficient.

My dad called yesterday and confirmed his daughter comprehension skills. He’d made a few calls, and a man who works with him, transporting apples in his truck from east to west, planned to pick up all the things I cried over and bring them to California where they will sit in the garage of my parent’s new house- my dresser, with a thin, flat surface that pulls out so I can write letters on it, my butcher block table that can take a knife chop or the hot metal of a cookie sheet and still look beautiful, my clothes (my personality), my bike, my pictures, my books (my companions)- everything! Sean and I wrapped, boxed, taped, drank, sweated and lugged and soon enough Dave pulled up in his slightly-smaller-than-an-18-wheeler truck and helped us lift my life into the sweet smelling trailer. When we were finished, I asked, “Will you take this?” and handed him a 20. He smiled with his one front tooth and from behind his thick glasses his eyes looked huge and swimming and imploring, which is probably why we talked for a half hour about his daughters, his dinner and his boss.

After Dave left, I climbed the stairs to a different apartment. The empty places weren’t sad, they just were. With bigger motions than I could use an hour before, I danced a bit. Dust bunnies spun around from the air I pushed while I stomped some happiness into the floor. I called my Dad, “Was that a dream?” I yelled into the phone. “Everyone at the restaurant under us was looking and laughing and Dave was cool and acted like this was so normal! Jesus. Thanks Dad. That was ridiculous and awesome.” And I beat out rhythms of joy and ease then went back to packing for Ireland.