LETTER TO A FRIEND

Dear Dad,

I wasn’t going to do this, you know. Two years have passed and there’s nothing I’ve come to hate more than the fact that your life continues to be defined by your death. I’m sick of it, Dad. I should be remembering how you lived instead.

And one day I will, I know. Every cell in my brain keeps saying, “You can move on now, it’s OK,” and every feeling in my heart keeps saying, “No, not yet.” I mean, don’t get me wrong–it’s better this year than it was last year. But still, every once in a while, this thick, oily sadness comes bubbling up and I’m ruined for a couple days.

It’s such an insult, Dad. You lived a good life, and all anybody can talk about is your death. Probably because it was so senseless and so stupid and so difficult to understand. And I am sick–sicker than sick–of having to think of you as my father who died too soon because of someone else’s negligence.

That’s why I said I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to speak a word about how two years have passed now. By doing so, I’m just continuing to define your life by your death. But I can’t deny one thing: Yours wasn’t the only life so defined. My life’s been defined by it, too.

I remember the first time I heard Josh Groban sing. I thought to myself, “Crimony, I can’t stand this guy, but my dad would love him.” And as much as I would’ve hated being subjected to a Grobanfest every time I saw you, I feel all the worse knowing that I never got to see you appreciate him.

I feel the same way every time I find a place with a good cheeseburger. (Heaven knows we’ve got enough of those in Wisconsin.) Or every time I hang out down on Willy Street in Madison. It’s so incredibly frustrating to try and appreciate some of these things, knowing that I’m forever denied seeing you appreciate them too. One of the greatest pleasures in life is sharing something you love with somebody who loves it at least 75% as much as you do. Even though there’s plenty of people in my life I can share all my guilty pleasures with, and I appreciate each and every one of them, not being able to share them with you just dulls my joy. Nobody sings as well, the burgers aren’t as tasty, the people on Willy Street just aren’t as wonderfully weird–it’s like living in a perpetual twilight of the senses.

It’s so strange how I’m talking about little things like tenors and cheeseburgers when so much big has happened in the last year–your first biological grandchild is now 9 months old, and #2 is on the way. Either it really is the little things that wind up meaning the most, or I just can’t handle the thought of all the big things you’re missing out on, too.

But, you see, that’s also the hope. Death never gets the final word. Life is even more persistent. And, if we’re ever going to get back to normal, creating new memories is what’s going to lead us there.

Two years on. The people who wouldn’t do the right thing a year ago still haven’t. That’s a big part of why I can’t fully move on, why I can’t remember your life more than your death. There’s still some unfinished business, namely the objective proof that you were wronged severely, and so were we.

But I think I’m getting closer to letting go of your death and embracing your life. I promise I’ll be back next year when there’s a new baby and a little more clarity in this house, and maybe then I’ll be in a different place. After all, they say time heals all wounds.

Maybe so, Dad, but time is a pretty clumsy surgeon.

Say hi to the boss for me.

Love,

Mark