My father has been dead now coming up on 30 years. He is still my father whether he graces us with his presence or now just with his memory. His legacy saturates the home I live in. It was the last house he lived in. It was the house he died in. Fell dead on the kitchen floor in the Fall of 1980 while laughing at some funny remark made by my mom over their morning coffee.
I am typing this in the den turned office he used during his last years on this planet. I sit in the same chair at the same desk he used probably the morning of day he died. Many of his tools I still use. Yes, his memory fills every corner of this house. Books he read. Pictures he took. Furniture he built.
And yet, as the years stretch to decades since he passed, I find myself remembering him less and less. Hence this post. A small reminder to me that what I have, what I have become, and where I am headed are in no small part due to his participation in my life.
Happy Father's Day!