This Is The Time Of Year It Hits Me That He's Gone

—Abel Pann

He would have been seventy-two years old this week.

By the time he was my age he had four children and a literally broken heart.

He did what he could.

He taught wonder.

I still sense him coiled like a discus hurler behind every one of my best intentions.

His blood is the blood that calls me back to this world each time I crawl away disgusted.

His are the words of forgiveness I am always surprised to find crouched at the back of my tongue. The tenderness, unexpected, that seizes me when I am in the presence of suffering or helplessness, that also is him feeling through me.

My biggest dreams are his.

He pointed out the stars, and taught me to appreciate the gorgeous example of upholstery that is a baseball mitt. The short trigger, the hatred of condescension, the intolerance of cruelty, his compassion and affection for the little guy and the underdog, all these things he gave me.

He could not, unfortunately, give me his unbridled optimism, his undying faith in human goodness, his stiff upper lip, or his genuine willingness to just let the world be the world.

But his capacity for love, his sense of loyalty, his appreciation for a good road trip, and his eagerness to play the fool –What can I say? I am his boy.

Even when he was ultimately defeated by life, he showed me again and again how to live.

I’ve forgotten so much already. I’d give anything if he could come back for just one day, for just one hour, for just one cup of coffee, to help me remember.