My father finally passed.
His death was predicted many times by Doctors over the last 30 years since he and my mother suffered simultaneous heart attacks one day in May 1980. My mother died that evening at the age of 54. From then on we would have to learn how to relate to dad individually, apart from mom who had always been the source, the connective tissue that bound us all together as a family. She smoothed the rough edges and in doing so unknowingly instilled the beginnings of denial. She dutifully fed the myth of our family. Maybe she needed it to be real too. But it wasn’t. I long ago grieved my last for what might have been.
For those who knew him in a different light, I envy you. From one whom he never had a good word to say about, again, I envy you who he cherished. You were indeed lucky.
I will search for peace. Our war is over. There was no winner. The battle scars remain.
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