So what did i know about my father? Everything and nothing. As people spoke to me about him there were some consistent observations from various parties. He was extremely intelligent. His younger brother was in awe of the way my dad would rationally and slowly think through things, how he was capable of understanding complex subjects and maintaining his focus on said subjects while digesting vast amounts of information. I remember my father telling me his college adviser told him he should go into engineering. My dad thought he was too weak in math, (so he became an accountant, which i always told him cracked me up), the adviser told him that while he may have to work a bit harder in math he was more than capable and far and away stronger in English and had an ability to relate complex concepts in an understandable fashion. He was a smart fucking dude. I know i already miss our philosophical and political conversations that would run into hours, i know i kept thinking i needed to call him today and then remembered that i couldn't.
Today i got on with things. I woke up and made the boyos cinnamon buns and then cut the grass, i watched Mexico beat ze Germans 1-0, (i told my dad i was all in on Mexico since the US didn't make it, mainly to piss off the supporters of the Orange Shitgibbon, besides today they displayed the heart and talent that we lack, what's not the root for?) i swept floors and dusted and did laundry, i drove the boyos to various places, i traded texts with various relatives and friends wishing each other happy father's day. There was no rest or relaxation mainly because i didn't want any, the more occupied i could keep myself the better it was, because i realize it's the space in between that gets me, where the mind loosens up and lets down it's guard and i think about what i need to tell him and shake my head and wonder how many times that needs to happen before it finally stops or feels normal, doesn't make me take a deep breath to compose myself, it happens in the car or in the kitchen as i watch a groundhog eat leaves out my back door, it happens in the quiet of the night as i look in on the boyos, it happens mid-page in some book i'm reading where i wonder, what would the old man think of that?
There have been times over the last few days where i've talked to that rosewood box. I know Pops would get quite the chuckle out of it but he understood his son like few others have, he knows i talk for me, for comfort. I also know that today is the first of many firsts. It's alright, while i'm not quite the rational thinker Pops was i'm still his son and did inherit some of those traits, time doesn't stop, soon enough the boyos will be off into the world and i'll be that guy sitting in his chair reading his books and talking on the phone (or over a beer or cup of coffee) for hours to my sons, at least i hope that's how it'll turn out. There's some things i'll teach them, mostly what Pops taught me, that it's their life and they gotta live it, that you keep your word and try and be a decent human being, that sometimes you're gonna fail and that'll be okay so long as you pick yourself up off that mat and, you know, get on with things. Man do i miss that guy.
(What my dad was reading when he passed away)