My mom woke me up on June 5th, 2006 to tell me my father had died. I was 13, and my birthday was just two weeks away. My mother never was on friendly terms with my father, and rightly so. He stole money from her. Lied to her. He was never violent, but he had a temper and couldn’t really ever control it. I remember the nights I cried myself to sleep because of something he did. He never brushed his teeth. He rarely did laundry. But still, none of that prevented me from sobbing my eyes out for a week after his death. He was my father, and I loved him. I don’t think she loved him, but that didn’t stop her from crying too. I think she cried for me.
Shortly thereafter we moved to Cypress, California, closer to school and only about five miles away from where we lived originally. It was more about the principle though; my mom and I always talked about moving away from my dad, leaving him with only his possessions. I was never really for that. Just thinking about that made me feel down, made me feel ungrateful, but with his death came a certain level of resolve. Moving away wasn’t a spiteful thing to do. It was just something we had to do, and in a way it helped me, in a very direct way, to move on. I learned a good deal about death and loss that year, but no tear was ever cried in vain. I can’t imagine myself without those experiences. Granted, I’m only a seventeen-year-old kid, but from time to time I can really let myself feel vulnerable and I’m glad for that.
In hindsight, I’m grateful. After awhile you start to forget things though, like what his voice sounded like or what his embrace felt like. At first, it frightened me so much. In time, though, it becomes easier to remember the things that aren’t so ephemeral. Things like the time he introduced me to computers, something that I’ve been passionate about since, or the times we shared playing trading card games with my brother, times I will always cherish because they comprised of some of the most fun I had as a child. It becomes easier to forgive and it becomes easier to love. Not just my father, but for everyone and everything I know. Death taught me to live in the present. It taught me that the future is an illusion we create and that every breath is a valuable gift.
I suppose the Romans would call it carpe diem. Sometimes it gets hard though. It’s easy to slip into self loathing and it’s easy to let my worries devour me. It’s a very human thing to do. But like most humans I come out of the sadness with a newfound perspective: a new sense of gratitude and a heightened perceptiveness of the ‘small’ things. Just like I did on June 5th, 2006. Just like I will always.
(Taken from an essay I wrote for school.)
Much Love,
Chris
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