Today is my father’s birthday. He was fifty years old when I was born; were he still alive, he would have turned 113 years old today. But he’s not. He died when he was 81 and I was 31. It’s mind-bending to realize he has been gone half my life. I looked back at my post about his birthday a year ago and said essentially the same thing I just said. It’s as if my annual remembrances have become habit, born of what I think is duty. One day soon, I will write as much as I can about my memories of my father. In the interim, I will simply remember him as he appears with my mother in a photo that sits on the dresser in our bedroom, a big, genuine smile on his face.
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This post hit me in a different way. My father was 56 when I was born so I remember him mostly as an “old” man. I, too, am going to write about my memories of him, soon…I remember one of my high school friends remarking that it was interesting that even though my father was a lot older than hers and another friend’s, he had outlived their fathers. My regret is that I did not talk to my father more. I have so many questions I’d wish I had asked him… I imagine the is more typical than it should be.