Monday, April 29, 1996 was the worst day I have lived. It was the day my father took his life. A single round from a .38 forever closed his handsome blue eyes and silenced the gentle voice that had always encouraged me. With that muzzle flash, he broke my heart, betrayed my love and all that I had done for him. He left my family shipwrecked, like so much flotsam on a sea of pain.
His passing was unexpected and unbelievable. Eleven years have come and gone and I still have difficulty comprehending what happened. Sometimes, I think I'm having a nightmare that I'll wake from but unfortunately, his death is a reality. About the only solace I've experienced has come from the passage of time. Time does round the sharp corners and dull the vivid images of grief.
My father was a highly intelligent, principled, ethical, unselfish, and gifted person. I loved him so much and have had to cope with the incredible anger I've had toward him for leaving us. Even more than the anger, it's the unending sadness that grips me--the sadness for all that was, and all that could have been. It's the sadness and regret for the stories we won't share, the trips we won't take, for the grandchildren he won't hold, for the unshared love from his family and the unpaid respect from his colleagues and friends. This sadness holds me like a vice and I don't think the passage of time will force it to slacken its grip.
No comments:
Post a Comment