No son thinks of a day when his dad isn’t there. For a young man, his father is a fixed entity who will go on forever – whether he likes it or not – moving the world to make it safe for the tribe.
A son imagines growing to be the man his father would be proud of, stepping either into his shoes or over them, but never absent his influence. His father is like gravity to his young consciousness, inescapably drawing him into the form he must become.
And now my dad is dead and I am left to finally answer the question every father demands of their sons:
‘Who are you without me?’
-fathers to their sons-
But without you here, the answer I worked all those years for now eludes me, leaving behind a mixture of anger and desperation in its wake.
Like the man who traveled a long distance to end up where he began, holding only a map to nowhere.
I started working towards autonomy around the age of twelve when I landed my first five-figure job. Around that same age, I began regularly testing my physical limits via manual labor, various athletics, general fitness, and diet. As a sophomore in high school, I weathered my first ‘La Noche Obscura,’ with a half-dozen more to follow over the years, each time emerging more spiritually whole. Mentally and emotionally, I have done my fucking work wrestling my shadows.
Bike Crash
Relentlessly I strived, getting up early to grind. Even sat on the cushion and cried, refusing the instinct to hide. And now you rode off and died leaving me untied.
Yet, beyond the burning horizon of my anger, I know there’s more to our story than a dead end.
I know a man’s journey is helix shaped, stretching out as we circle round, and that I am neither lost nor defeated. I know that your passing has indeed brought me home, that this is a good thing and brings with it another, richer perspective.
I know that I can now hold a looking glass to our history and absorb whatever it is I see without a point to protect.
I can now see how you maintained a silent steadiness about you, consistently working away like a windmill to deliver power to those nearby. I see how you would engage with almost anyone who rode your bus but chose your circle carefully. I see where you would measure a man’s intentions against his contributions, weighing his character in the balance. I see how you searched for the truth behind the facade and freely shared all you could discern. I see that you pressed on down the trail of life, striving for inner stillness through tireless motion. I see whenever you fell, you got up.
All except this last fall from your fat tire Specialized. The fall which claimed your life on the banks of the Minnesota River at age 79. From this fall it is I who must get up on your behalf.
So get up I will.
Rest in peace pops, Happy Father’s Day.