A Fuzzy Father Story

He died when I was three.

A terrible car crash that took his life, my older brother's life too, even though he didn't die in the crash. So here I am thirty eight years later thinking of my dad. It's coming up on father's day and I reflect upon his memory as if I were my own son. Is he thinking of me?

That's the problem with losing someone important in your development at an early age. What was left behind was only a question followed by another question followed by a hole to fill. I filled it before with things that only made me worse for wear. My brother continues to be worse for wear; if I could tell you where he was I probably would not.

So why does it haunt me still? Would my life be different? Would I be rich? Would I be poor? I am poor right now. Poor from the lack of reassurance of his love and the inability to tell it to him today, or before he died. So long ago he died and I cried, I think.

But no matter now, I do not need his love. I do not need his life, or my life that would have been because I have my own son now, one I would not trade for anything. Not even for more time with my own dad and time with my brother. When he died we all died too. But I grew from death into something I can be proud of. I have what I would have wanted if my dad had lived long enough for me to want a life that he did not provide. That's what we all do. I did it even without him. But now my time is here and life is not so hard and the friends are close by to help us get through anything we may have to get through. Unlike before. when I was young and I wanted more. I was young and wanted more. Not so bad for a boy to do unless it is for his dad and his brother too.