memorial

On June 7th, 2006, my father died. He was eighty years old and had lived a good life, I think. The impact of his death still hasnt totally hit me, mostly, I think, because I'm letting the idea into my head in small bursts. Like this one.
I mean, I know he's gone, but I try not to think about it, except in a controlled manner. Largely, I'm successful. Is this healthy? I dont know. Maybe it is for me.

He wasnt supposed to die so soon, though he wasnt in very good health. He was in that stage before the stage when you're counting the days. His kidneys were failing, but no one had said, "he's only got x length of time to live". He had, however, reached the stage where he needed dialysis, and while it cleared up the yellow tint he'd taken on, the process was apparently too much for his body, and it simply shut down.

Now he's gone, and I'll have to figure out problems with air conditioning, auto mechanics, and household appliance repairs all by myself.

So much of my childhood is a blur, a jumble of images without reference. Never having been one to dwell on the past, I now find myself unable to recall much of it with any sort of clarity, so the loss of my father is not only physical, but, I'm discovering, mental also, and this may be the worst part.

He would not have approved of my blog (amusingly, while talking to his brothers, uncles whom I'd not seen in years, I discovered that they were lifelong liberals). But it was the upbringing he gave me that taught me to question things, and that is much of what made me the person I am today. And I think of that and am grateful.

Thanks, Dad. I'll miss you.