I meant to visit him this time, my decision firm even before the plane took off from Long Beach. Confirmed driving away from SFO north on 101, east on 24, the fog to my back and stopped at the Berkeley hills.




My dad is dead, has been dead for almost twenty years and my visits stopped at the two, maybe three count. It's not that I don't think of him often. There's no ill feelings, no unsettled business. Always love and respect and fond memories in fact.


Why not then, you might ask. For the same reason I cringe when old friends, at web length Facebook friends, state they listen to 80s music still; I've moved on.

Regardless, I'll be where he is eventually - we'll have all the time in the world to catch up then. Now is for the living.


  1. it took me 17 years to visit my brother's grave. i know what you mean...


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