It is 10 years to the day that my dad stopped breathing in the middle of the night and died. He was 47; I was 14. I’ve written many words about this day and him and deleted most of them, not just because it is hard to write, but because there is so much to say.
He was an incredible man: an engineer, an artist, a writer, a reader, a soccer player, a community advocate, an amazing cook, a perfectionist, a skeptic, a goofball, a Seinfeld addict, a brother, a son, a husband and a father.
I can’t do all of who he was justice or explain all of how I am feeling 10 years later. I do know that his death clarified not just the certainty of death, but the randomness of it. It’s not fair, but it’s how it is, and it’s not a question of if, but when. Life is short and uncertain and don’t take it for granted and tell the people you love that you love them and every other cliche out there.
I want to say more, but I can’t right now so I’ll leave it at that. I’m very glad to have had him as my dad, and to be in the city that he grew up in and loved on this day.