Marty Lorenz, My Father

I am afraid for my father. I find myself grieving the part of him that I have already lost, heartbreaking in that I have only recently come to appreciate the part of him he chose to share with me.

We were never close. He didn't like children, his own included. I barely got to know my three older half-brothers before they were sent away to their mother, never to return. Not for a couple decades anyway. And then, only fleeting moments before they disappeared again, ran off by a larger-than-life figure that they would never be able to please.

The only part I know of my father is the part that he left inside me. Like all strong personalities, he passed on some of his character traits, and it is those that I inherited that allow me to understand and relate to him in the most basic instinctual ways. His dark humor and straight forward candor, as demonstrated in this sign he had me make for his yard.

What I don't understand about him could fill a library. What I don't respect, a book. What I love and appreciate completely fills my heart, and it is his voice that often rolls quietly around the back of my head, especially in times of crisis, when a calm, determined, thoughtful voice needs to be heard above the chaos.

The stroke scarred his brain, and now the mini strokes and seizures continue the damage. At first he was in denial, then defensive, and now he is in that delicate fragile place when he is starting to realize there is nothing to be done and some day I am going to walk in the door and he isn't going to know who I am anymore. Not one to want to be a burden, or lose control over the quality of his life, he is preparing himself to go out on his own terms. And preparing me for the day when I stop by his house and he is no longer there.

It isn't a pleasant thing to consider on Father's Day, but there it is. I am glad for the rain to cover my tears, and for the fact that at the end of the day over the yearsI have been some small comfort to him, and he to me.