Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my father's death.
I've been staring at that sentence for about five minutes. I am brimming with words and emotions about the sentence. And the man.
I want to write that he was a good man, but I'm not all that sure.
He tried. That's probably a more accurate statement.
He tried to love my mother. He tried to support her but no amount of money, love, caring or kindness could fill the broken cauldron that substituted for her heart. Until she tossed him away, he tried to be her safe place in the storm.
Extremely shy, he tried to interact with his vocal, stubborn daughters. He tried to engage. He tried to share his interests in music, theater, ballet, and art. When the time came, he tried to interact with his daughter's husbands.
He tried to give. He tried to be kind. He tried to love. But he had no idea what it meant to be giving, loving or simply kind.
But he tried.
He tried to break me - break me with his fists, his rules, his deadlines, and his cruel words. He tried to destroy my wild nature with recrimination. He tried to indue me with his terror of the world.
In the end, he relied on my indestructible wild nature to do what had to be done and send him on.
All these years later?
I still miss him.
If he was sitting here, he would say, "You seem weepy today."
I would nod knowing that there was no way for him to understand how I felt or what it meant.
"It's the way of things," he'd continue trying to use logic to explain the emotional. "The old die so the young can live."
I'd nod again. "But I miss you."
"I know," he'd say.
And we would sit in silence for a while.
Where ever you are today, if you have a moment, could you just sit for a moment in silence with me and my Dad? I'd appreciate it.