It’s still hard to fathom that he is gone, my dear ‘Pops’, dead over 18 months now. Eighteen months! It just doesn’t seem possible.
As in my previous blog, ‘Encomium to my Father’, he still figures large in my mind, and I still miss him dearly.
A teacher that I subbed for this week took time off because her own father died three days ago.
Three days. Here I am, 18 months later, and still do I mourn the loss of such a mentor, an icon, a good man, my father.
Pops. I miss you so much.
Many, many moments have passed since those 5oo+ days, and still my Dad…my dear, dear Dad, figures large in my mind.
“Christ, Dad! Why are you no longer here? Where the hell are you?”
I miss your acerbic wit, your sarcasm, your self-deprecating ways, the way you seemed to light up when I stopped by when you were alone, how we engaged in conversation and a cup of joe before hopping into your old Sentra to whack a few dimpled balls at squirrels along whatever golf course we so chose. Jesus, Dad. I miss walking those fairways with you.
Every time I gaze at the picture above, I wonder what was going on in your head at that moment. There, on a beach you have not stood on for so many years, with a glass of chardonnay in hand, gazing out at the distant sea, what was going through your head, Pops?
Two days later, back at home, alone, you lay on the living room carpet with legs sprawled on a chair, your eyes open and staring into the sap-stained ceiling, a stain left from many Christmas trees, a stain that stared back down at you as you lay supine, staring, silent (in pain?), quiet, a last breath, sighing, thinking, unmoving, dying, wondering, a final gasp…gone.
I miss you, Dad.
with fond memories of my dear Father,
Paul Harry, your loving son.
Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.