Ten years ago today, my father died. He was 59 years old.
It seemed – it still seems – so horribly unfair.
It’s like having a limb amputated – you learn to live around it. The wound heals, but the limb never grows back.
I miss him answering the phone when I call home. I miss his jokes. I miss the fastidiousness with which he fried bacon. Everything. Everything.
Over the weekend we finished listening to “The Last Battle,” by C.S. Lewis, in which (spoiler alert) all of Narnia is transported to new Narnia, aka heaven, and is reunited with their friends and family from ages past.
I imagine that if my father and I meet again, it will not be on a grassy slope in a pastoral landscape – rather, my father’s “mansion in heaven” will look like a less subtle version of Versailles. I imagine that, at this very moment, my grandmother is visiting him and tsk-tsking about those godawful French antiques.
This is my father in his high school yearbook, where he was voted “Most Talented.”
Apparently they had not created a category for “Most Festive.”