Tomorrow is my dad's death anniversary. He was 55 when he was killed or died or committed suicide, which are some of the variations in a short list of possibilities resulting from a poor investigation mostly left undone by a local sheriff's department, poor reporting & ethics by a local Texas newspaper, and the privilege of perspective based on known and unknown facts & circumstances. His death day was Mother's Day. This year marks the exact numerical day of that occasion all those years ago.
My father was 7 years shy of that magical average age where people apparently report that they feel like themselves, an age where people finally feel comfortable in their skin - 62. Would he have finally divorced my mother by then? Would he have married his mistress? Would he have made it to Washington, D.C. where he was supposed to have been slated to serve as advisor of a newly appointed General? Would he have ever been happy? Would he have suffered under his guilt and addictions to nicotine, caffeine & alcohol? Would he have gone into the hospital one more time with that gray pallor of a complexion that I remember him having when he lie in the hospital with an upper respiratory infection a couple of years before his death? Would he have been able to have a real conversation with me, daring to be honest and in the moment? This would have required him to unravel at least a few of his lies, be in therapy and be vulnerable. On second thought, this transformation would have been a long shot miracle. But since I do believe in miracles, maybe.
It's funny how some people have grandparents & parents into their adulthood. I was a young adult the last time I had more than one parent. And the parent left behind was dramatically transformed by a lifetime with an abusive spouse and the dramatic ending revealing the real life of her husband, my father. He left behind my sister too. She barely liked me before his death, and maybe liked both me and herself much less after his death. We had to wade through media coverage of the event. Everyone knew something, even if hardly anyone was privy to the facts. In the aftermath, there was just enough family left to make two, not three.
The last advice I remember my father giving me (not that he took the time to give me much of it), which was the last time I saw him in person was, "Don't marry someone you love. Marry someone who loves you."
My sister and I both grew up thinking that having children was cruel. We've since moved the needle on that, but we'll probably never be married or have children of our own.
April showers. Missing May flowers.
J.S.