This week marked the anniversary of my father's death. Many years--it's now been sixteen--the anniversary goes by without me noticing. This year is not one of them. The first few years were the hardest, of course. My father, only 55 when he died, was missing out on the big moves I was making in my life. In his death, he missed my law school graduation, my success passing the bar exam (1st try), my first big-time job, and meeting the man who became my husband. In his death, my father missed the smaller moments too: my straight teeth after wearing grown-up braces (he always wanted to be able to provide that but didn't have the means); my travel adventures; my telling him anything at all about my life. I wish that he knew about the book prize I won this year. I wish he could be there when the book comes out next year and have a chance to hold the published book with my name (his name) on the front.
In truth, my father had been missing all of those kinds of moments in the last few years even in his life. "My father drank," as Scott Russell Sanders, wrote so succinctly and tellingly in his essay, "Under the Influence." My father spent the years after my parents' divorce drinking and despairing and had become pretty unrecognizable by the time he died. My father was a trim, handsome man. He died gaunt; his hair long and uncombed. He died of a heart attack in the tub at around 10 in the morning. Was there a beer next to him? I don't want to know.
I read this beautiful quote the other day by Rumi: "What will our children do in the morning if they do not see us fly?"
Pop, I know you were meant to fly. And I promise you this: with each new dawn, I'll spread my wings and catch a good breeze to show you that still, I'm flying too.
