“C’mon Dad!” Natalie cried, dragging me by the hand. “C’mon!”

“Lead the way,” I said

As the attendant lowered the safety bar on the roller coaster ride, I wasn’t overly concerned. When I was a younger man, I went on just about every kind of amusement park ride there is and came out unscathed and vomit free. Since I have a small child, however, it had been years since I’d been on a “big boy” ride, but I figured it would be like riding a bike again. I was wrong. 

When the old coaster hit the bottom of the big drop with a crash, a jolting pain lanced my neck and shot through my shoulder blade. Alarmed, I closed my eyes and tried to stabilize my head, which was next to impossible considering the G-forces involved. Feeling my skin break into a sickly sweat, I gritted my teeth and hung on to the bar for dear life as the world tossed and turned in the darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, the ride finally ended. 

“Ow!” I said, rubbing my neck and feeling woozy. 

“Are you alright?” my wife asked from behind me. 

“I think I got whiplash.” 

Stumbling off the ride, I twisted my neck around and was rewarded with an arthritic pop. I hadn’t really gotten hurt but was rattled. Now I knew why old duffers don’t go on these rides, content to watch their kids have fun. Was I becoming one of those people? Then again, I’ve been occasionally mistaken for Natalie’s grandfather. 

“Let’s skip roller coasters for the rest of the night,” I said to Annie. 

Despite being taken to Europe for her summer vacation, my daughter is still little and had been begging us to take her to an amusement park complete with water slides since the day school let out. As the pages fell from the calendar, Natalie asked us when we were going every day. “We have to take her somewhere,” I told my wife. “She’s been a good kid and deserves this.” 

“We’ll go to Hershey Park just before school starts,” Annie said. “If we go during the middle of the week, it won’t be crowded.” So, I took two days off from work this week, threw my family in the car, and drove to the “Sweetest Place on Earth.” Amazing that the Disney people haven’t sued them over that line yet. 

Our tickets let us enter the park at five o’clock until closing and then reenter the next day. The park was mercifully uncrowded with no lines and we crammed in just about every non-coaster ride we could until the security people ushered us out. Then we walked over to Chocolate World which features an animatronic ride showing how chocolate is made. 

“Didn’t you come here when you were small?” my wife asked as we walked inside. 

“1978,” I said. I was the same age as Natalie then – and the place looked like it hasn’t changed a bit. 

“That’s right. I have that picture of you and your brother from that trip. You’re all wearing funny hats.” 

“I remember,” I said. “We had it on the picture board at my father’s wake.” Then, with a start, I remembered it was exactly six months to the day since my father died. Talk about timing. As we walked onto the continuously moving floor to board the ride, I was hit with an overwhelming feeling of sadness. I’d been here forty-six years ago, when my parents were decades younger than I am now. How old was my dad back then? Thirty-five? Now he was in an urn we’d finally placed into a mausoleum last week. 

Rubbing my eyes, I realized I’d had a hell of a time of it lately. I’d spent the previous weekend sweating the results of my bi-annual cancer screening and, though I got the all clear, I was too busy dealing with my food pantry’s school supply giveaway and dad’s internment ceremony to relax. It didn’t help matters that I got talked into giving a double blood donation to boot, which left me literally drained. So, when it came time to go to Hershey, I was looking forward to some much needed leisure time but, instead of delighting in my daughter’s wide eyed joy as we watched cocoa beans being turned into sweet treats, I was slumped in my seat, feeling defeated and old. Towards the end of the ride, a sign told us we were about to have our picture taken so, remembering that old picture of my brother and I with our parents, I pasted on a smile and said, “Say cheese everybody.” SNAP. Then, when the ride was over, I ponied up twenty-five bucks for a printout and a JPEG sent to my email account. 

“That’s nice picture,” my wife said. 

“Uh huh,” I said. Then we went to our hotel where, of course, our daughter wanted to swim in the pool. What is it with kids and hotel pools? Shaking my head at Natalie’s limitless energy, I just sat in a lounge chair and watched her frolic in the water until closing. Then, after some snacks, we watched the movie Groundhog Day on television and went to bed. Unfortunately, I tossed and turned in and bed and, when sleep finally did come, I dreamt I was Bill Murray – trapped in an endless temporal loop but with nothing to show for it. Unlike Bill, I didn’t learn how to speak French, play the piano, or achieve saintliness. Feeling like my life had been wasted, I awoke in a foul mood but, since I didn’t want to ruin my wife and daughter’s day, I kept my feelings to myself. But, as I watched parents chasing their kids around the amusement park, I could feel my soul coldly compacting in on itself, resentful that everyone around me was so fucking happy. 

My fuse got lit when came when my wife asked me to trek back to the car to fetch our swim clothes for the water park. Being absent minded, I forgot where I parked and ended up roaming the lot for half an hour in the afternoon heat.  “I’m turning into my dad,” I said, remembering his long slide into Parkinsonian dementia. “I’m gonna end up just like him.” Luckily my wife told me to ask Siri where we’d parked, and I finally found my car. Now stewing, I met my family by the main entrance and dumped the bag with our towels and swim trunks onto a park bench. 

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” I said, icily. “Wait here.”  

“But we’ve got to get to the water park,” Natalie said. 

“WAIT.” 

The line at Starbucks was long and the baristas slow, but I eventually walked out with an iced coffee and, as an apology for my brusqueness, a cake pop for Natalie. Sitting on the park bench, I savored the caffeinated coldness of my expensive cup of java and sighed. How many more hours until this day was over? Then, as we were fiddling with our things, my coffee cup fell off the bench and onto the ground. Three, two, one, ignition. “Goddamn it,” I yelped. “Goddammit!” Then I picked the empty cup off the ground and angrily whipped it into a trash can.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” my daughter said. That’s when tears filled my eyes. 

“You’re right,” I said, patting her head. “Now go on ahead.”

Upset I lost it in front of my kid, my wife asked me what was going on. “I think I’m losing my fucking mind,” I swore. “My fucking mind.” Then I stormed off, furious, sad, and unmoored in a sea of children’s joy. What my wife didn’t know, because I didn’t tell her, was what that stupid cup of coffee meant to me. My father loved coffee and, as he lay dying, he asked me for some but, because the nurses wouldn’t let him have it, I had to tell him no. For him coffee had always been soothing but, as dad struggled during those last days, even that small comfort had been denied him. Remembering the disappointment in my father’s eyes, I will regret that moment for the rest of my life. So, it doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to figure out why I freaked when my iced coffee hit the ground. 

I was ready to yank us all out of the park and drive home when my own words came back to haunt me. “She’s been a good kid and deserves this.” Stuffing my feelings down deep, I got my shit together and we went to the water rides. This was neither the time of the place. Then, as I waited on a long line with my excited little girl for a ride called The Whirlpool – and feeling self-conscious about being mostly unclothed – a wave of cold water crashed over me. But, instead of getting angry, the shock knocked me out of my selfish rage liked a clenched fist. When I opened my eyes, everything seemed clean and new and, in an instant, I knew that I was going through those fluid stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Holding my daughter’s tiny hand, I realized I really missed my dad but, luckily, the water cascading around us washed away my tears. Then, when I had a private moment, I pulled my wife aside and apologized for my behavior – but was still unable to articulate why. I guess I’m much better writing about my feelings than talking about them. Now, honey, you know why. Sorry. 

The rest of the trip was a delight and, after a long ride home, I shined my shoes, hung a suit, tie, and starched shirt on my valet, and then went to bed. A seminary friend of mine’s brother died and I had to go to a funeral. So, the next morning, I spent time with another family dealing with grief and, as I sat in the back pew of a beautiful church, I hung my head and got in touch with my own, praying for that day when every tear would be wiped away. 

I miss you, Dad.