The moon will illuminate my room and soon..

I have this photo of my Dad that I wish I could share with you. It's a shoebox either in DC, Ohio or back on Cape Cod. I don't think I've even scanned it. But if you held it in your hand, you'd see a young man wearing a red and blue flannel, tight blue jeans and red sneakers.  Across his chest is strapped an analog camera and he's surrounded by beautiful autumn foliage. He was my stepfather if you want to be precise. But he's the man who put in the work so he's the father that deserves the title.
I was just talking about him the other day on Reddit in response to this other dad's amazing question, HERE.

Today, on Facebook I woke up to messages from my uncle and my cousin telling me that my father had passed away. It's a weird way to find out but that's how we communicate.
I don't know the cause of death. I only know he died after he walked his dog. They found him at his desk.
In the mail, my uncle said my dad was proud of me and things I had accomplished  but I'm pretty sure he just didn't know what to say at a time like this.
For one thing, I haven't accomplished anything of note. And for another, my Dad was the kind of man who takes the dog out for a walk before he fucking dies sitting up.

Not everything he did or said makes me proud. I won't pretend that we didn't have our differences in opinions. But he's the reason I can read and ride a bike and why it's ok for men to cry.



This is perhaps just the word vomit of a wounded animal talking, but if the illusion that 'you've got time' keeps you from saying or doing something you believe is right, it might be finally time to ask yourself why. I thought we had time. I was sure we'd mend it later.
Granted my contact with Fred had been brief and sparse over these last years and things were just about as good with him as he was willing to let them be. He didn't want to come to my wedding, nor meet the person who I chose to share my life with.  Sure, he'd answer my calls when they came, open my emails when he had to--I assume. But real contact with him for myself and all of my siblings became something more than he could handle.

[darjeeling limited] 

In short, I cry now for the man who turned a refrigerator box into a play house and trips to the dump into a song. But I'm still a little angry with the man who died at his desk.