Yesterday was my Dad's birthday. He died 22 years ago from the inexorable progression of congestive heart failure. Times are hard for me now and I suffer that oddly common yet futile desire to speak with him just one more time. I wanted to share something I wrote after his death. Maybe it's my way of speaking with him that one-more-time that I need so badly.
Hi Dad. Mom made your grave look nice. I like the carnations. Who planted them? And who left the little bottle of Jack Daniels and the bottle cap? I'm sorry I haven't been here since your funeral. I'm glad you were alive for Father's Day. It was nice having the entire family together. I can't remember the last time that happened. I'm sorry Marie wasn't there.
I am kneeling down and wiping some dust off the headstone. The clouds that are reflecting in the marble look so peaceful. It's hard to believe a bad storm is on the way.
Dad, it's finally supposed to rain tonight. Maybe the grass will turn green. I need to ask you something. Remember when I told you that Dr Christiansen took you off the heart drugs because I said you would not want to live that way, especially with the hallucinations? You said I did the right thing. Do you still think that? Have you seen mom today? She's pretty upset.
Three carnations have bloomed. I'm picking the nicest one. I'm savoring the fragrance. It's a little spicier than most carnations.
Dad, I hope you don't mind that I picked a flower. I think they're almost done blooming anyway. Do you remember when I took your pulse and blood pressure on Father's Day? Before I could even tell you the results, you looked at me and asked me not to tell anyone. I squeezed your hand and you smiled. I wanted to kiss you like I did when I was a kid. I'm sorry I didn't.
I'm thinking about his pulse that day and how irregular it was. I'm inhaling the scent of the carnation as slowly as I can. I'm glad we kept the secret.
Dad, I miss you.