What Will Never Be
My Dad is at peace now
Dad, why did you have to die so quickly? Didn’t you know you were supposed to live long enough to see the next generation? Yeah, that’s right, Dad, one day I was going to have kids, little rug rats running around the house, spilling and spitting, and making me proud.
And I wanted you to be there.
I wanted you to see ’em Dad. To have pride in your son, in your grandkids. I wanted you to tell them the stories I heard growing up. About Afghanistan, about Mexico, about India, about all the people, places, things that you and Mom did.
And its not like Mom will not be there, but you know you were to storyteller. She was the fact checker, correcting your dates & places, but you had the gift.
It was your voice, your cadence, and your spirit that gave the stories life. It was you Dad that taught me how to weave a tale. Its you that I copy when I’m on stage. Its you that I try to capture as I write this. Its you Dad and now you are gone.
I see you now only in my dreams. Hell, I’m trying so hard to remember your voice, your image, your presence, and yet you’re fading Dad. You’re fading a little bit here and there every day. I fear it, Dad, I fear the moment I realize I can’t remember you anymore. I know it will happen, and yet I fear it so.
That’s when I will fully realize how transient we are on this Earth. That no matter how much I write, how many I make laugh, or where I go, it’s all temporary. That none of us, or even our effect or our memory lasts forever.
You’re gone Dad and I didn’t get a chance to make your memory permanent. Do you know I don’t have a single recording of your voice? Not one video clip of your moves? Or how much I would give, at this instant, to have even one of your annoying ‘I just wanted to tell you that I love you’ voicemail messages?
I miss you Dad.
Why did you have to leave? Why did you have to die? And why on earth did you shave your head just before doing so? You had such a great lock of white hair. Hell, I only wish I’ll get some of that before all mine recedes.
Now I have to face my bed again. The one I can’t sleep in since your passing. Or I can sleep in it, but only if I’m too exhausted or drunk to stay awake. Otherwise, it’s like tonight, where I am awake at 3:11 am, thinking about you, about me, and about life.
Let me sleep Dad, let me close my eyes. Then do what you do best, tell me more stories. I wanna hear again about the India to Pakistan border crossing. The guy in Formentera who moved the rock with a stick. How the ‘Bit O Sole’ made it into a movie. How you and Mom styled for a decade across the world.
Tell me Dad, I’m listening. In between the tears, I am listening. I am, I swear.