My father

My father died yesterday.

Most of the traits I believe myself to have that I like are inheritances from him, including his facility for math, his quick wit and his sharp sense of humor. Every time I come up with some elaborate hoax to perpetrate on a co-worker or create some very personalized toy or trinket to give to a friend, I think of the similar things he did in the years I was growing up. I claimed never to have forgiven him for taking my "Gulf No-Knocks" horseshoes (a gas station giveaway back in the days they fought for your business with promotional items) when I was eight, promising to replace them the next time he bought gas, not realizing the promotion had ended. Secretly, though, I thought it was kind of cool he'd used the horseshoes as part of some gag on a friend at the office.

We weren't as close as I would like for a father and child to be. I don't know when, exactly, we stopped trying, but we did. I know he was disappointed with many of the choices I made throughout my adult life, and I was disappointed he wasn't more accepting of them, or at least more accepting of me despite the choices. I will undoubtedly err in the opposite direction with my own children, and their remembrances of me will be colored by their disappointment I didn't provide more guidance in their lives. I can live with that.

A minister came into his room at the hospice yesterday while my mother and I were there and asked us what we would like to pray for, for him. I chose peace. I don't believe he found much peace during his life, and it would be good if he could find some in death.

So, my father is dead. May he rest in peace.