One year ago today, my dad died. He was 75 years old, so it wasn’t a shocking surprise, but it was terribly disappointing.
The last few times we spoke, it was often about his sadness and fear of the future. The last time I hugged him, I cried because I sensed that it might be the last time. The same feeling had struck me the last time I saw my grandfather.
I had hoped to see him break out of his funk to smile and laugh like the father I remember bellowing ‘Hey! You bastards!’ out the window of our Dodge van, the ‘big 440’ rumbling us down the avenue, as the climax to one of his favorite stories.
I wish that his grandchildren could have fallen asleep in a tent to one of his wickedly ingeniously boring and only barely spooky stories.
I’m sad that he never wrote the memoir we wanted of his stories of growing up in different distant corners of the world.
But I know that’s because his greatest passion was for our stories, and I wish I had shared more with him.