Eighteen years ago today my father went up to the lake for the last time.
We were told he died quickly. Heart attack. Nothing could be done...
How strange to live in a world without fathers.
Sad?
Of course. A new emptiness opening in my heart.
And yet, considering the alternatives, it was a good death,
especially for a man who took joy in the simple pleasures, who made no great demands on life, content to see what each day offered, who managed to have no Big Dramas, except World War II and me. (Father, forgive me.)
It seemed fitting he'd depart this life quietly, quickly,
doing what he loved,
and much loved.
[First published: May 26, 2016]
