What Was Handed Down

Devin wanted nothing more than to be a father.  He came from a long line of strong, thoughtful, intelligent and sometimes humorous fathers. He intended to fulfill his place in that lineage.

The Father’s Day prior to Davis’ birth, Devin and I watched the U.S. Open, a tradition in the Wick family.  Davis Love, III, was interviewed on TV that day. Devin had already been lobbying for our baby to be named Davis, if in fact, the baby was a boy. I was so certain I was having a girl, coming from a long line of Januzzi women, first in my grandfather’s family, then in my own.  I thought nothing of it his pleas, I continued to lobby for Dylan (“of the sea”), while the only Davis meaning I could locate was “of David’s son”, and though that lineage was not one to argue with, the connection was only meaninful to a brother of mine who died at birth.

Three months later, my intuition and I lost a bet with Devin, and I birthed a baby boy.  I swear I hardly had to lift a finger in Davis’s first days, as Devin was so overcome with his new son, he hardly let him out of his arms, let alone out of his sight.

Devin went back on the road, traveling for work, each Monday heartbroken to have to leave, each Friday, a bit more weary, but more content, to reach into the crib and pull his son back into his arms.

The routine went on for months, and soon, Davis and I began traveling with Devin, as the three of us could hardly stand time away from each other.  We celebrated Devin’s first official Father’s Day during a rare time at our beach house in Oceanside.   We also celebrated Devin’s birthday. He turned 37, and never looked more radiant and alive than when he squeezed the pudgy stomach of his little boy and threw him into the air.

Months later, his journey as father took on an urgency that never relented, and he was diagnosed with leukemia. For three years, he took on cancer. And for three years, we shared a depth in our lives that few would ever replicate.  And while the low times came swift and sudden, Devin cherished the high times with equal rigor and enthusiasm.  And in times of weakness, he still had the energy and inner composure to sweep up his young son.  And in times of strength, he fully occupied that space of father.

In our innermost conversations, Devin always regretted he had not been home more often during Davis’ early months. Not because he didn’t trust me, or worried about us, but that he had missed out on something extraordinary. A life opening up.  I told him he shouldn’t regret a few months, out of a life of forty years, and yes, he agreed, it was true.

In his final weeks, he left no stone unturned in sharing his narrative with Davis, through words he left behind.  No one has read those words, not even me. They were for Davis. They were part of what was handed down. They were meant to build up Davis when he needed lifting, or had questions about his own constitution. 

There are many ways to be a father, to leave behind a legacy. And his became larger, after his passing, via golf outings, memoirs, remembrances and shoes to fill.  But his passion to go forth, despite all else failing him, will be his lasting. I pray he left Davis directions on how to do so in his little book.

6/15/2014

AJW