Ever since I was 12, my father has been visually no more than a black and white photo. Despite existing solely in this physical image, his emotional and spiritual presence has guided my life.
Once he was dead, he became the always loving father I could go to for consultation and comfort on any subject. He never yelled or criticized. He didn't live long enough to be challenged by my teenage rebellion.
He also never hugged me or kissed me as I grew from child to teen to woman. He never attended my graduations from junior high, high school, or college. He never walked me down the aisle. I didn't miss him at those times and it wasn't until I reflected back years later that I realized I hadn't noticed his absence. His absence was simply the way life was so I didn't expect him to be there and never felt gypped.
I am now approaching the anniversary of his death. I always remember the day he died and am probably the only one who does. But some anniversaries are more significant: the first, fifth, tenth, and every following decade.
This anniversary is unique and cries out for attention. The reason: my father has been dead for as many years as he lived. He died at 48 and this Friday, November 20th, it will be 48 years since his death.
Forever young.
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