The Magic We Lost When My Father Died

The bell still rings for you

“You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you, Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have need of him…”

We all listened eagerly. All three of us in our PJs. Me in my high four poster bed on the right, petting the silk corner of my blanket absently, my sister in her identical four poster bed on the left, leaning over the edge, rabbit locked tightly under her arm, and our little brother draped, like a child shaped blanket, across Dad’s shoulders as he lay on the floor in between. Above them towered a roughly made bookshelf with cubbies stuffed with the countless adventures of our childhood.

“‘So you did see your father last night, Harry…. You found him inside yourself.’ And Dumbledore left the office, leaving Harry to his very confused thoughts. Aaaaand, we’ll finish the rest tomorrow night!” Dad said, dropping his narrator voice and tucking the worn paper bookmark back between the pages.

“No, No, NO!” we clamored. But the book was closed. Little brother was tossed over his shoulder as Dad whispered, “Goodniiight,” in a singsong voice, and shut out the light.

My dad taught me all about magic. He was an expert. Magic was part of all of the stories he read to us before bed growing up. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Charlotte’s Web, Harry Potter (1–3; we binge read 4–7 within days of their release), Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Witches, The BFG (Roald Dahl was very popular). Magic was made of mystery, luck, and a little something extra that was top secret.

Being a lover of magic, my dad’s favorite time of year was Christmas. He would deck the house up like mad—two Christmas trees, one twelve feet tall. Well four Christmas trees if you count the two outside, one of which was at least thirty feet high. Yes, my mom thought he was crazy, with a smile because he was making her crazy. But that’s not all! Icicle lights on the front of the house, candles in every window, and a little Christmas garden with figurines and an electric train that ran around the perimeter. But I think his favorite part was marching in the house with bags and boxes all December long saying, “No peeking!” and quoting Little House on the Prairie, “Christmas is not the time for asking questions!”

They would throw a Christmas party for all of our friends every year. We would build gingerbread houses on little milk cartons, hunt for pennies, and when Santa came, everyone got a present. One year my dad took my sister and me aside. He bundled us up in our coats and we slipped out the front door. We walked across the front yard, our boots crunching in the snow. “Wait! Listen!” Dad said. We looked up into the night sky, our breath freezing on the winter air. “Can you hear it?”

“Hear what?” we asked looking all around. “I hear Santa’s bells,” he said, “the reindeer are on the roof!”

After my dad died, magic left our family. And for some time I thought we were lost. I was grown then. I knew there was no magic! There never was! There never would be again! But if there never was… if there never was why were things so different now? If there never was, how did he make our hearts stop before with excitement and make us laugh so hard we fell off the couch. How did he do it?

I tried to remember him with his graying hair and big nose, awful teeth but winning smile, cap on his head, glasses atop, tobacco pipe poking out of his pocket, and dressed in bright colors from head to toe. He read us stories. He built us tree forts and balance beams. He danced with the dog to make us all smile. He hid hundreds of Easter eggs at o’ dark thirty. He brought us the first daffodils of spring with a bouquet even for little brother who couldn’t stand to be left out. He took us camping in the back yard. He made us breakfast for dinner. He wrangled the biggest pumpkins. He sang us awake in the morning. He helped enthusiastically with every science project. He made snowy Santa prints in baking soda on the carpet leading to the chimney.

I realized he never had any magic, he MADE it. He made it because that secret final ingredient to magic is love and he loved us fit to burst. He lied. There were no bells, but we heard them.

It says on my father’s tomb, “Our hero, the bell still rings for you.” This is another literary reference. Every December 24th before bed, Dad would read to us The Polar Express, and per usual, his narration was top form, whispering and bellowing in turn, giving each character a distinct voice. It was about a little boy who has been told Santa is not real. He rides a magical train to the North Pole and is gifted a bell from Santa himself (you can see why my dad liked it so much—Christmas and trains?!). The best part was always the very end, “Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.”

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