Proof of Purchase

When my Dad was still alive, he used to play guitar.

I only remember hearing him play it once or twice, but I can picture it, leaning against the wall in his living room, when we'd go to see him for our weekend visits.

When he passed away, I brought his guitar home with me.

Along with a book full of songs he had written.

It made me realize that he was so much more than just my dad.

It's funny that we don't always see our parents as "real" people until we are older.

By the time I knew myself well enough to try to get him know him that way, he was already gone.

On Thanksgiving this year, my ex-husband and his wife came to share the day with us.

I'm so grateful that we've chosen to work together and have a healthy co-parenting relationship. One that shows our boys that we put them ahead of any other petty issues his dad and I may have.

My mom and dad didn't have a great relationship after they divorced.

It's nice to know that my boys can see their father and me as a unified front (most of the time at least).

Parenting teenagers is hard enough without all the other drama that can come with divorce.

After Thanksgiving dinner, we were sitting around the table, playing games. Tom's wife asked if I had found the receipt in the gratitude journal she gave me.

She had given me the journal a couple of months ago, but I hadn't used it yet. I went and picked it up from the table in the living room.

I opened it, and a few pages in, there it was. The receipt for my dad's guitar.

Heather had found it in some old papers at their house.

Dated August 15, 1977. More than 43 years ago. Almost as old as I am.

The paper was yellow and leathery, wrinkled, but still readable.

And there was my dad's signature.

I felt his presence at the table with me for a brief moment.

The last holiday we had spent together was Thanksgiving, eleven years ago. Our boys were so little then, only 6 and 2. Dad was just getting to know them. He passed away a few weeks later.

It was a really nice holiday with him, and I'm grateful that the last memories I have were of that day.

Not every holiday had been as sweet and drama-free.

Dad wasn't perfect.

Neither am I.

Neither are my boys.

Neither are any of us.

But I hold onto the memories of the good times and the proof we have of them.

Receipts are proofs of purchase.

Evidence of things that we have bought, or things that have brought value to our lives.

Evidence of the starting point of something new. Or the ending of a chapter in our journey.

Like learning to play guitar.

Or having a child.

Or getting a divorce.

Or buying a home.

Or purchasing the turkey for a Thanksgiving meal.

I'm grateful for this receipt, this small piece of him that brought him to our table on Thanksgiving this year.

And I'm grateful for the group of us that sat around it. Playing games and laughing until late into the evening.

Two teenage boys.

Their mom and her significant other.

Their dad and his wife.

We're proof that it is possible for us to all co-exist.

Even in a pandemic.

Even in a sometimes ugly world.

And that's priceless.