Today is the anniversary of my father's death. I was 41 when he died. So it's been 24 years. I was shellshocked from my mother's sudden death 10 months before, my favorite safehouse client's murder by her ex-husband, a move from one state to another, and getting 4 kids in various schools from preschool to high school. Yet I am forever grateful that Dad got to die at home, and we had the kind of talks you hope you get to have with a loved one who is dying. He planned his own funeral, and he let go swiftly and with his usual courage. He died on the sofa in his family room, looking out at the garden he was so proud of. I sat with him for several hours after his passing, and his countenance was peaceful.
I miss him. He died at exactly my age, which now seems much too soon, though it did then as well. We were moving back to be near him. Our kids were deeply attached to him. The loss was profound. He was such a fiery, passionate guy that it was hard to believe anything could lick him. It seemed hugely unfair.
He showed me how to leave with grace and kindness, without melodrama, and facing directly into the wind. He left me a path to follow.
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