Dear Dad

~ 3 minute read

Dear Dad,

Can you believe it’s been exactly 8 years to the day since we last spoke? You weren’t in great shape as I left the house that morning to go vote (yes it was Election Day if you recall). I asked if you wanted to go cast your ballot with me or wait until that afternoon to go with Mom. You opted to wait. The nausea and vomiting were particularly brutal that morning. I left to perform my civic duty not knowing that was the last conversation we’d ever have. Kinda strange.

Your body was decaying rapidly toward the end. Its betrayal was cruel and unrelenting. Every new ailment, every piece of bad news sent wave upon wave of sadness through the house. By the time you left, your body was a shell of itself - a carapace that kidney disease nonchalantly left behind.

It was hard to watch. Gut wrenching sometimes.

And yet.

And yet your spirit remained in tact. You read all those many British mystery books and watched hours of TV and longed for the ocean - things that had always mattered to you and occupied your time. You continued to cultivate a rich inner life as your external life deteriorated piece by piece. The foundation was strong even as the building crumbled.

I think a lot of people succumb to the darkness when death begins to snoop around. The fear of the unknown makes them shrink. Death would soon accompany you to your next adventure but you remained steady somehow. You were just as steadfast at the end as you were in the middle and (I imagine) the beginning. You stayed the course like a boat on choppy waters.

Perhaps that was one of your superpowers all along.

The world is dramatically different now than the one you left behind. We’re in choppy waters, Dad. Anxiety and ridicule and rage and fear and sickness are seeping into every nook and cranny. It’s hard to know where it’s safe to tread. Our planet is in a volcanic pressure cooker. Everything that ever lurked below is breaking through the surface.

I’m curious to know what you’d think about all this. I could speculate (as I often do). My guess is that you would call the craziness for what it is. You would hold truth to power. You would call out those leaders who lack honesty and integrity, grit and good judgment. You would take a step back and look at the world through the lens of human history (a benefit to having as much history knowledge as you did). You would hold tight to your stubborn optimism.

You would be steadfast.

We could really use that steadfastness right now.

Perhaps, as an homage, I could channel my own steadfastness. Maybe if I grab ahold of the things I know to be true, I could find steady ground below me. If I live a life aligned with my beliefs, live from a place of compassion and reason and empathy and creativity and justice, I could be a source of steadfastness for others.

Maybe constancy - yours and my own - was one of the gifts you left behind.

In any case, I miss you. It’d be so fun to know you as an adult. I’m quite different than the person you knew 8 years ago on Election Day. I’ve been battered around a bit by life. Lots of ups and lots of downs. That’s the nature of being human I suppose. I’d like to think I’m a little wiser for it, a little funnier, a little more secure in my personhood.

Anyway, love you. Miss you.

P

ps I promise to write more often. I know it’s been awhile.

pps People still say I have your sense of humor. Despite my protests, I take it as a compliment.

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