This week would have been my Parent’s 47th wedding anniversary.

September 17, 2011

Death

When my father died, I had a lot of thoughts I didn’t expect. Strange little things. You can’t shut your brain completely off so you let it think and maybe not try to control it andit stops thinking sooner or later. Anyway, the minute I heard of his death, I started arranging things in Orlando so I could drive to Gainesville. I wanted to be a rock for my family. I wanted to be especially strong and compassionate for my mom. I could only imagine what she was going through.

On the drive, I would think things like “Geez, dad, you couldn’t have died a few days later so I wouldn’t be taking so many days off of work?”  And then I’d start to worry about money and I’d realize I was my dad.  I also remember thinking that Notre Dame killed him. He loved that team and they had to start the season losing to South Florida and blowing a huge lead over Michigan. For true Irish fans like my dad, this was prettymuch reason to give up. I also wondered if my dad had a spiritual passing. Did he see a light and bravely walk out to it or was he noticing the stains on the ceiling when whooshout the lights went?  Did he suffer?  Did he scream and flail in the night and no one at the assisted living facility notice?  Was he upset with me for not coming this past weekend because I was tired and wanted to take my kids to Seaworld? Would I finally get to see my brother at the funeral?*  What would I say to him? What was I going to say to my mom? What could I do for her?

I drove up to Gainesville in silence.  The sounds of the road were noticed in high detail. My senses were in high gear and music would have overloaded them and wrecked me. About halfway there, my shoulders began to ache and I wondered if my father was coming to me for healing, but really just making me sick?  My son had been sick just days prior. Was it just coincidence that I was getting sick or was this some cosmic spiritual connection? Lonely on the road in the midday sun on September 12, 2011 - there was to be no answer for me. Just the sounds of the road beneath my tires and the wind drifts against my 95 Accord Station Wagon. I would spend the next several days in a feverish stupor not able to get out of bed. So much for being a rock.

Growing up, I didn’t realize my father was a good man. I mean, who does? I, like most teenagers, found reasons to hate him. Why didn’t he give me a car? Why was he so damn conservative? Why did he not let me have my door closed with girls in my room?My father really was a nice guy. Almost too nice for this world. I suppose that’s why I resented him for awhile. He didn’t prepare me for a world of assholes and drugs and sex and violence. This was the world I found when I went to college and started out in the world. He never told me anything of it nor toughened me up in expectation for it. For that, I was pissed for a long time. I realized much later I directed my anger at my parents, but really I was angry at the World for being so imperfect, so cold to the problems of it’s people.  It was easier and less suicidal in a way to just hate mom and dad than to hate the whole world.

Hate the whole world.

Love the whole world.

When it came down to it, my father let me live. He let me experience things. He stayed out of the way for the most part. And I owe him a lot for it. I wish everyone could have a father like mine. I wish I could be a father to everyone who needs it.

At the funeral, the priest asked my mom if he was a good husband. The best she replied. He asked me and my sisters if he was a good father. the best we replied. He said there is nothing better in death to remembered as a great husband and father. Listening to the sounds of my own son laughing in the service as he accused his mother of farting and having to go poop — I knew the torch had been passed. I wanted to be as respected and loved as my own father. As I was holding my mom, she cried and it was beautifully cathartic. Her love for my father is everything I could ever want for me.

*Note: My brother didn’t show

………………………

September 22nd, 2011

Yesterday I carried the remains of my father in a small cherrywood box. It was surprisingly heavy. We had a small ceremony for the placement of his urn into a columbarium. I held the box for my mother and sister Loretta as they kissed him goodbye. I kissed the box as well. I placed it inside the columbarium wall and sealed it. Nearby,there was the sounds of children playing. Everyone cried.  My son Lucas was asleep.

Ten minutes later I walked to my sister Kim’s car to get my mom’s purse. I jokingly carried the purse back to my mom as it was my own and threatened to not give it back (noting how it complimented my eyes).  How quickly we can go from mourning to laughing and back again.  Shortly after, we had dinner at a place called Kays. Kays is run by gays. I say this not because I care, but because it was so overtly obvious. The gays at Kays are flamboyantly gay. They have the gay voice and the gay walk and the gay talk. And yes, the voice and the talk are different things. I normally would have ordered vegetarian, but in honor of my father, my mom recommended the Philly Cheesesteak. It was a great idea and it tasted delicious. My father would have loved it as much as I did. Kays only has one Foreman grill, however, and it took 45 minutes for them to make the 7 sandwiches my family ordered. We waited and poked fun of my teenage niece Savanna who is currently the queen of negativity. Sorry Savanna, but it’s true. It’s a teenage thing. Life hands you a golden turd and all you see is that it’s a turd and you toss it in the trash.  In some cases, though, life hands you golden pieces of gold and you still can’t see it. Sometimes it’s better to fish around for turd on your own than accept the treasures that life is offering you. Life can be that weird. Life can be that adventurous.

Back at Kays, we finished our dinners and my generous brother-in-law was paying the bill. I slipped a $20 in his shirt pocket for my family.  As a musician and artist, I have to remind myself to chip in. I can get so used to accepting and at times even relying on the generosity of others.

It started to rain. As we drove my mother home, it was both sunny and rainy. My mom commented that the Sun was for my father’s shining light in heaven and the rain was because we missed him here on Earth.  How beautiful is that?

It doesn’t matter to me if most of what the Priest and my mom say about spiritual matters are either just poetic symbolism or straight up religious nursery rhymes. They are comforting traditions to deal with loss.

I don’t feel any great change now that it’s been said and done. Maybe I’m just not fully aware of what is going on behind the scenes. I’m no longer sick. I am back into the routines of life. Everything changes and everything stays the same and it’s all happening and not happening at the same time.  When it comes down to it, either you choose to change the world around you or it will find a way to come back full circle the way it was. I want to honor my father and my family. I want to find a way to put food on the table and money in the bank. I want Alejandra to work less and be with the kids more. I’m focused and hungry. Are you?