Tonight is the Yahrzeit of my father’s passing.
This is one of those times that, there’s no doubt, it is a challenge being grateful.
My Dad passed away at the age of 83, but he was far younger than that number suggests.
With his Netflix subscription, he had basically watched a film a day, for the last three years of his life. And read a book every two days.
Other than having a cigarette hang from his lips at a celebration or two, he never smoked cigarettes.
He had a drink perhaps once or twice a month.
He swam a ½ mile a day, EVERY DAY, sometimes twice a day.
He was in great health, until he wasn’t.
We were the best of friends, and I don’t feel much gratitude that he’s gone.
Yet:
His voice and his laughter have not left me.
I inherited his work ethic and his concern for the welfare of all.
His frugality has now afforded me a level of creature comfort that removes at least one area of stress in my life, and made it easier for me to help many, many other people.
Three years after his death, it is not much easier. A bit I suppose, but not much. And I am not grateful for it being a bit easier, because it seems to me that he’s slipping further away.
But I am grateful for all that time we did have. All those memories; farts, films, friendship, focus, French fries, and saying Fuck you.
In the end, I suppose I am very grateful.
For being my father’s daughter.
