Tomorrow you will be treated to an account of my pre-surgical anxiety (I know, be sure to tune in for that super fine treat), but today I’m dealing with the other aspect of my life that made 2009 such a fucked up year. A year ago today my father died. He was a brilliant guy. A painter, jeweler and sculptor who never had any commercial success, but still made art nearly every day of his life. He was the person in my life who most understood the strange combination of cynicism and whimsy and love of this earth that forms the core of my personality. Doubtless because I got it from him.
By the time he died, it was a relief. He’d been suffering for a while. And I’d been worried about him for years, constantly plotting how to convince him to let me make his life easier. I’d always planned to force him to come live with us when we had kids. He was too proud to let me take care of him unless he gave something back, and I figured child care could be the trade that might finally convince him to give up his back-breaking job. It breaks my heart that I never got the chance.
It breaks my heart that my notional kids will never meet him. It breaks my heart that I may never see him looking out at me from my child’s face.
I’m told you don’t get over death, you just integrate it into your life. So far it feels very much un-integrated. Let’s hope year two feels better. Thanks for reading.