A Birthday, Of Sorts

I had actually typed out the eulogy I gave at my father's funeral, as today is six years since he passed.

But then I realized, some things are just for me and my dad. Maybe some day I'll post it, but as ok with everything I am right now, this one is a bit too much for me now.

Strangely enough, in my opinion, today is my birthday. Sure, I was born on another day, but as I described to a friend at the time, 'the day my dad died was the first day I felt like I was working without a net.'

And I still feel that way. That's not a good or bad thing, it just is.

I hope you don't understand.

Thank you, Dad, thinking about you.

Regular posts to follow next week.

NandD

Year Six

Wheels keep a spinning round and round years keep a spinning round and round
With the passing of your time, though you seldom come to mind I remember the day
Sure as winter follows fall, sure as maybe I will call, just remember the day. ~ Robert Plant, "Far Post."

Just remembering the day. Six years ago, and sometimes it seems like a lifetime, other times, the wound is still fresh. I guess ultimately that's what you need to do, stitch it up, lament the pain, and move along.

For the first time in six years, I'm going to celebrate Christmas. It was my father's favorite holiday. I can't say I'm 'over it' per se, but I do know that I finally am feeling out from under. And it's good to feel that way.

It's also nice to feel like there were good times. And there were plenty of those.

So why do we remember our dead? They're no longer with us, obviously, but they take up mental and emotional space far greater than their actual presence ever did.

The conclusion I've come to is we remember for our own sake. Hoping against hope that it all means something, that when our predetermined time arrives, others will keep us alive. So that we can matter. So that we can believe. So that we can live on. If only for a second.

So Dad, you can rest easy, you still live on through me, my sisters, and even my mom. Though you may not have gotten everything you could have hoped for, you did get immortality.

It's the only gift I have left that I can give you.

But what else can a son do? All men are sons, and all of us secretly dread and aspire to the same thing: that we too can play it the way you played it.

You didn't play it perfectly, but you played it well.

A week and a half ago, I had a dream about my dad, and I haven't had one of those in years. I was on a couch, watching tv, and inexplicably I looked over and my dad was on a couch as well. He looked at me and said "Son, you've got to sleep more than four hours a night." He then got up, covered me in a blanket, and said "Son, just relax, it's ok."

You know what Dad? You're right as usual. Everything's ok.

Happy Birthday, Dad.