Saturday, it will be the fifteenth
anniversary of my father's death.
Sunday will mark my eldest son's
twenty-first birthday.
Both of those are painful, though for
different reasons.
The first hurts because there is so
much I left unsaid (and unasked) to my dad. I thought there was so much time. He
died at seventy-two, from complications to a knee operation which
should have prolonged his life by making it easier for him to walk
and exercise. His death was sudden and unexpected: one day he was
fine, the next day he was dead. The infection which took him was
fast and furious, and did not respond to the best efforts of his
doctor.
I can't bring him back. All I can do
is make sure not to make the same mistake with my mother.
With the Not-So-Little Drummer Boy, his
passage into formal adulthood fills me with regret. What have I done
wrong? What should have I done differently? He is a wonderful young
man, and it feels like it was the result of forces beyond me. Last
summer we had a discussion about ways in which the occasional
dysfunction which this family is prone to had hurt him. By the end
of the talk both of us were in tears. All parents fear that they are
screwing up their kids; I have been told exactly what I did to mine,
without blame or rancor, merely pain.
I can't protect him anymore. All I can
do is tell him I love him, and tell him all the things I wish my dad
had told me before he died.
Neither of those things seem like quite
enough.
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