The following is an excerpt of an essay that appeared in the book, “Dear Dad: Reflections on Fatherhood.”

 

By ROSA MARIA SANTANA

 

My dad was a mystery to me. When I was a little girl, he was an intriguing and charming mystery. As I grew older, he became a more perplexing, sometimes painful, puzzle. The faded picture of the two of us that I have kept for all these years says so much. 

 

In it, I am 3, wearing a red ruffled dress, white socks and black shiny shoes. My dad kneels next to me, pointing at the camera, trying vainly to get me to pose with him. Instead, I stare at him. 

 

Years later, I stare into that grainy snapshot while also searching the pages of my mind over a lifetime of memories for answers to the mystery man and to what caused the picture-perfect daddy and daughter to divide. 

 

As a little girl, I called him papi. I adored him.  As I grew older and spoke more English than Spanish, our relationship became more strained, more distant. I stopped calling him papi. Instead, he became dad. I became, in one sense, daddy’s grown up little girl, left with more questions than answers.

 

Back in elementary school, I did my homework in the dining room where I cherished my bird’s eye view of papi in the living room. After a long day of work, papi would lie on his stomach while watching TV. During commercials, he’d turn over on his back and rub his tummy. In those moments sometimes, I’d sneak up on him then suddenly jump on his big belly as if it were a trampoline. I was only 6 or 7 years old, but he acted like I weighed a 1,000 pounds. He’d yell in Spanish: ¡Ah! ¡¿Qué andas haciendo?! ¡Ya para! Translation: What are you doing? Stop it! Sometimes, his choice words were a bit more colorful, but he was always playful.

 

I’d giggle uncontrollably. His reaction only encouraged me to keep jumping.

 

When I was a little girl, I remember him laughing a lot; it sounded like the thunderous crash of waves against ragged rocks. The sound could fill a room like the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. His laughter was just as reassuring as cookies – a favorite comfort food of mine. I remember him smiling, enjoying food, savoring a good joke. 

 

As I grew older, something happened. Papi changed. He grew more withdrawn, with pronounced mood swings that I did not – could not – understand as a child, then later as a teenager. 

 

This much I did understand: The twinkle in his eye faded. His boisterous laugh disappeared. He disappeared. And we grew apart. By the time I was a teenager, our relationship severed too many missed conversations and opportunities for father-daughter intimacies – precious time and moments made irrecoverable as the years passed and school and a career in journalism carried me far from home, farther from papi.