memories of my dad
|I won't be the first, and certainly not the last to posit the only reason humans believe in an afterlife is because the ego demands it. How can our existence simply end? Gone all our accomplishments. Inconsequential all our quaint tokens that pleased us, placed just so here and there to decorate a room. No one would throw anything away. Would they?
When my dad died, he left a hole. And a whole lot of stuff. Papers he kept and now Mom has no idea what should stay and what is meaningless. The morning after he died, I searched through his desk drawers. I found an odd screwdriver, no bigger than my little finger, but the handle was short and fat, a double-thumb size.
Back in one corner, a tiny leather nail trimmer holder that closed with a snap. Kiwanis is etched on it.
When I was around ten and sitting with my dad in his office at our house, he found a nail trimmer set in his drawer. Palm-size leather case that snapped shut. He laughed when I asked for it. I've kept it with me all these years.
The screwdriver is next to my own set, the tiny nail trimmer leather case next to the large one from years ago.
He had two blue sweaters, and every time I saw him, he was wearing one or the other because he was always cold. One dark blue and one light blue. The lighter one like his ice-chip blue eyes. Mom let me have both.
I wore the light blue sweater every day for weeks after he died, until the days warmed as Florida approaches the summer season. The dark blue one I sleep with still.
Where is he? Energy can never be destroyed, so his energy went somewhere. Is that supposed to be our soul? No. The dead are gone. Yes, they live inside us, but it's only a memory and it doesn't keep them alive. It's comforting to believe those warm feelings, but it's not reality.
My sister died in 1983. She's with me every day. I never lost her. She's the inspiration behind "Invalid Item" . Every day is the day she died. But it's okay.
My dad's just gone. Every day is the day he died. But it's not okay.