Twenty-eight years ago yesterday, my father died. This morning walking into Bikram Yoga, I heard his voice, piercing, commanding, “Heal and toe, Richie! Heal and toe!” But today was the day after the anniversary of his death, so I didn’t begin to shake, I didn’t go into a panic attack, I didn’t flash back to the night I watched him die.
But yesterday was another story! All day I fought the image of him dying there on the floor begging me for help. All day I saw the last tear he ever cried roll slowly down his check. All day I felt his silver-gray hair still alive on my lap as he took his last breath. All day I heard the last words I ever spoke to him, “I love you!”
Although I survived another year without him, not a day goes by that I don’t see his face and miss him.
The other night, my son Aidan cried when his mother was putting him to bed. He said, “I wish I could have met my Vava.” (Irish for grandfather) His mom quickly told him we’d all be together someday in Heaven. And he cried louder and said, “But how will I know what he looks like?”
Aidan is six and I have to wonder why he asked about his grandfather on the 28th anniversary of his death. Nobody spoke about it yesterday!
The link below is a piece I wrote for the Los Angeles Times on Father’s Day. It’s the best way I can tell my Dad that I’ll love him forever.
http://www.latimes.com/la-oe-farrell19-2009jun19,0,6561322.story
www.whatsleftofus.com
Powerful, Richie. Thank you for sharing. My mother's b'day was Nov. 28th. I lost her when I was 14. I miss her always. I hear you, and feel you. Your strength, your talent, and your big roaring heart, inspire. RRxo
ReplyDelete