Three-hundred Days

Mike Brown (April 27, 1948-April 29, 2017)

As I sit here in the quiet, my mind goes back to the three-hundred plus days my father sat, alone in his house in front of his TV and contemplated his fate. Oh, how he hated that time and yet to my mind those were three-hundred missed opportunities to live. Of course it's easy for me to speculate from the sidelines about what I might have done differently had I been in his shoes. The truth is, we all walk our own path, are only responsible for our own choices. And much as it frequently twists me into emotional knots, the harsh reality is we cannot change or control the way in which others choose to love us. That single thought spreads like wildfire in my mind, touching burning embers to other faces of those I've loved who have caused me pain. I wonder at the embers I have caused that scorched others, and that, too, is bittersweet.

We all either fumble in the dark trying to make sense of the world around us, or if we are lucky, have the ability to just take life's madness in stride. As I sat last Saturday night surrounded by people whom my father's life had touched, I searched for peace. My uncle prayed, we ate and listened to exquisite music played by Spencer Scholes, the talented young man that my brother hired to honor my father's memory, and I dug through a hundred memories, a thousand memories, searching for the one I could hold onto as I said goodbye. It struck me, though, that I've been saying goodbye to that ornery old man for my entire life. Where is the finality? Where is closure? I took in every word, every note that floated around the evening breeze, trying to find ones that made sense to me in the face of a lifetime of memories that made absolutely no sense.

I have spent weeks now untangling all of the messes my father left behind, and I'd like to say I've done so with grace. The reality is not as pretty. Although I have always loved my father, I'm angry. Cleaning up his messes makes me angry all over again, as it is the legal metaphor for all of the emotional messes he's left in his wake, frothy bubbles of churning feelings that he was inclined to shove deep down and ignore. I am not hardwired that way, and for that I'm eternally grateful. While it might be easier to pretend like every part of me is just hunky dory, regardless of what life throws my way, I'd much rather feel...deeply, wholly, with reckless abandon. Even when doing so hurts like hell. The world still turns, the fireflies still do their magical dance around my yard on these sultry summer evenings and before long the seasons will change. And eventually, I will find the strength to say that final goodbye to the man who provided the other half of my DNA.