My father died yesterday. I still can’t believe it. This was my father, after all. Or at least, he was the one man who was man enough to accept the position. He was my number one fan, having read every one of my published works, and always encouraging me to do more.
He understood my ambitions, crazy as they were. “Patience, my son,” he would say. “You have to pay your dues. Then you’ll have everything you want.”
He understood my anger, a very deep and restless thing, that can be surprisingly monstrous when it reveals itself to those that do not know me well.
Always shaping me, always honing me, preparing me for the time he knew he could not be there. He was generous with his time, his love and what few possessions he had. He was a nomad, having more addresses while I was growing up than I could count.
But no matter where he was, on my birthday, there came the card with a check for $5 or $10 or $35 as I got older.
I’m rambling. I’m still in shock. Maybe for now, it’s enough that the world know that it’s lost a bright light of a soul. Though perhaps you did not know him, maybe you would mourn with me for just a little while.
Then maybe life can go on.
Christopher Vera 