I never really knew my father. He died when I was five less than a month before his birthday. He was driving home but never made it. Having to pull over as his heart gave out on him. Found by a state trooper in his work van. I try not to dwell on it though. I often wonder what he would think of me if he were alive. Would he be proud of me? Would he approve of the path my life has taken? I can’t really say; I can only hope that he would.

Losing him taught me about the fleeting nature of life, and the importance of valuing not only life but the memories of those who are no longer with us. It is how my father remains with me. Memories, pictures, and stories make up the sum of my father for me now. They are all I have of him now. If I were to ever lose those, well I don’t like to think about that possibility.

The main memories I have of him are fleeting. Glimpses really, impressions of a life I did not know. I suspect some bits of those are creations woven from the fabric of my mind, partial memories, and those things I wished for and from him. I do remember though. I remember his smile and his laugh. How he was bald, and had many friends. I remember riding in his van. I recall his chasing me around the house; laughing with my sister, and myself as we ran and ran. I can remember to this day how he let me try a cigarette. And how it burned, and how he knew it would. I never did smoke cigarettes. I remember his drinking beers in the back yard joking with everyone. I remember bits of a trip to Canada too. And, most importantly, I know that he loved me.

I hope that one day I will be able to see him in whatever afterlife there may be. And I know I will tell him about my life, and how I missed him, and how I hope that I did something right in my life. And I feel, I hope, that he will approve, and maybe understand.

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