All Grey

It's been two weeks since my mom took the kids and left my dad. Last night, my family gathered together for a birthday celebration because when there are kids involved you:
put on a smile,
bake a cake,
buy presents,
tickle,
say, "give me a kiss, cutie."
"Happy birthday."
"I love you."

I watched my twelve year old (foster) brother, Brian, so quiet and still compared to his regular overactive, running around, talking a million miles a minute, self. I watched my mom, exhausted from so many sleepless nights, worrying. My brother, Chris, tired and stressed. His wife Nadine, looking out for him. My older sister Caroline, weary and trying to hold all of us together. Her husband, Jeff, strained and helpful. My younger sister, Kim, carrying burdens and babies. The younger kids running around with cake smeared faces, drinking more pop than they would normally be allowed to, sweaty and obliviously flexible.
We were standing around the fire, making smores when the first marshmallow went, "Phwap!" against Brian's chest. He giggled shyly at Jeff who had thrown it. "Phwap!" went another one against my nephew. "Phwap!" against Caroline, "Phwap" against me. Marshmallows were flying through the air like rocket propelled manna, smacking us all with that satisfyingly thick sound. I don't remember how it happened, but wiener sticks were dropped and sides formed, and marshmallows phwapped people left, right, and centre. Brian's face was purple- red he was laughing so hard, Caroline and I went tumbling along the ground, grasping at rolling marshmallows. My nephew snuck into the house and grabbed another bag and we tore it open like starved animals. Marshmallows flew into rosebushes, neighbor's yards, gutters, flower beds, trees. I phwapped my mom, she phwapped my sister, we all phwapped Jeff.
I haven't laughed so hard with my beautiful family in months.
I kept thinking, "Dad taught us this."

Any of my, "I don't give a damn” attitude, is from him. I remember pushing him through the grocery store while he rode in the shopping cart. Laughing in horror while he pretended to pick his nose in public to gross strangers out. Dancing with him in the truck to the music full blast. Dancing at weddings, dancing at restaurants, dancing in the living room. He helped me build my inventions, laughed at me when I wanted to wear a sexy dress to church, brought me roses to the opening nights of my shows, was the first to stand up and applaud. Always took our side if anyone gave any of his children trouble.
Always.
And we've all left him.
We had to.
But still. We left him.
And "we" are "us" because of him.

My sister-in-law said to me last week, that she used to think people were either good or bad. "Now that I've met your family, I realize that everyone is such a mix of everything."
I keep wanting to explain all of this. Explain that, yes, my dad is a drug addict. Yes. He used to tuck me in and bring me flat ginger ale when I was sick. Yes. He used to cook us crepes with whipped cream and strawberries for supper. Yes. He taught us all how to ski black- diamond runs. Yes. He prayed for us. Yes. He sang in the choir. Yes. He was a deacon in church. Yes. He baked shortbread at Christmas time.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
No black.
No white.
All shades of grey.
I missed you last night, dad.