Twenty-seven years ago today, Daddy died. It was a death too young, at 53. As I move each day closer to that age, I realize with increasing clarity just how young it really was.
Besides the loss, obvious though that is to any of us who have suffered the death of someone we love, the worse thing about someone so important dying is the very idea – the very chilling incomprehensible thought – that people will forget them. By telling his stories, and passing them along to Emma and Tess – and to you – he lives on. That’s my job. It is all we have besides small luggage tags with his handwriting, photographs, a red corduroy shirt, his Mickey Mouse watch. Let’s pass stories along, shall we?
I hope that if you can today, you’ll read a little about him and remember him, as I do daily.
Last year this time, on the very anniversary of his death, something special happened.