More To Be Pitied

It's difficult to write when you're trying to hold back tears and your brain is awash in a million memories and thoughts all set under an umbra of sorrow. But I'm trying.

You see, I received a letter addressed to my father today. I thought it to be another piece of junk mail or perhaps the final gasp of a bill collector. Instead it was from a friend of my dad's who lives in Chicago. I thought that I'd e-mailed him and left a message on his cell phone back in March but it looks as if I was wrong. I was not looking forward to calling him and letting him know that my father had passed away. I'd done enough of that back in March/April. At first I contemplated e-mailing or writing him as the stationery had this info on the letterhead. But no, I couldn't be so impersonal as to do that. There's just something wrong with that - too impersonal. Initially I put it off until The Dulcinea came over a short while ago which caused me to walk by the table on which I had laid the letter. For some reason, I was able to cast aside my procrastination and pick up the phone.

I don't recall ever having met Jerry but my father told me about him. They had both worked at IBM together in Chicago. After telling him who I was, I explained that my dad had died in March. He paused and continued in a voice that betrayed his shock. He composed himself and asked what had happened. I told him and he continued as everyone else did whom I had called this spring: they reminisced. Jerry remarked that my father was a very smart man - smarter than most field engineers at the time. He went on to talk about going to Cubs' games with my father. Then he fast forwarded to the sadness he felt when he saw how my dad had hit rock bottom after my stepmother's death. I listened intently and added my own anecdotes to the conversation but I mostly heard him talk his way out of shock. I didn't mind, though. I'm rather hoping someone will do the same for me when my brain decides it's time to talk about my dad and his death.

The last thing he told me was that my father had expressed regret about having been estranged from my brother and me. Hearing those words moved me very intensely. I felt an odd mixture of comfort and sort of having gotten my revenge. I know, I know - de mortuis nil nisi bonum - but it just happened. It felt good to know that he felt bad about our relationship. Not that I'm proud of having felt that way, but there was nothing I could do.

Fuck. I probably shouldn't have put on "Way Down Watson". Feel the heart strings sinking fast... Yeah, it's about a building and not a person but so it goes.

I've been thinking a lot about my dad recently with Thanksgiving, his favorite holiday, swiftly approaching. I was out in the parking lot at work last week and I found myself staring into the distance pondering what his last thoughts could have been. Did he think about his sons? (How selfish of me.) More likely, "I don't want to die!". I guess I'm still not totally used to him being dead. In some ways I am, but not others. Maybe you never totally get used to it. But I always thought I would be older before I was sitting around reminiscing about the old man.

There's a riot in the head
bygone and soon to be