THE DAY MY FATHER DIED

by January 23, 2009 0 comments

The day my father died, over 20 years ago, the sun
still rose in the east and set in the west. I took the
Q train over the bridge into Manhattan, gave my seat
to a pregnant woman who thanked me for being an
old fashioned gentleman, gazed at the glittering sea
below, and got to work early.

But before I sauntered into my office, I looked up at a
golden sun on this glorious day in May and silently
thanked G-d for the gift of life.

The night before, I finished reading Hermann Hesse’s
Siddhartha for the 6th time and contemplated the nature
of father-son relationships. Before going to sleep, I read
a few pages of Steppenwolf and began a dark journey of
self-exploration.

The day my father died seemed like any other spring day
until my sister called and said: “Dad’s gone.”

I did not leave work, for I needed to forget and deny his
death. And since my father passed away in Florida, his
body had to be flown to New York.

I could do nothing but wait. The day my father died, I was
helpless.

Yet the universe continued to dance its cosmic dance, and
the earth chased the sun. The moon still came out that night.

And according to The New York Times and the evening news,
humans committed heinous acts on my father’s last day. But
I believe that righteous men and women blessed the earth and
others with their kind deeds the day of his departure. It’s a
well kept secret. We hide the beautiful stuff from each other.

The day my father died, I felt everything, lost everything,
died and was reborn, and my invisible universe changed
forever.

I must confess that I loved and hated him, condemned and
forgave him before his death. And the day his soul vanished,
his body still and cold, I blessed and forgave him once more.

I needed to let go and love. The act of forgiveness saved my life.
No one noticed, however. The world went on as usual, indifferent
to one man’s death or another’s search for his soul.

Leave a Reply