Twenty-three Father’s Days have passed since my dad, Sam, died. He was 69. The last time I saw him alive, in a hospital bed in the den of his house, he was drifting in and out of consciousness. When I bent down to kiss him goodbye, he quietly said: “This is hard for Gerilynn” [my real name]. He died of melanoma a few days later, weeks after turning 69. He never got to take it easy, which he richly deserved to do after working so long and hard to support a wife and three daughters. He was in financial distress the last few years of his life, so he couldn’t retire. My sisters and I were not yet in positions to help him as much as we wanted to. That makes all of us sad.
Happy Father’s Day, daddy. I hope you got in a good game of tennis today, listened to Pachelbel and had a great lunch with mommy. We miss you.