Today my father would have turned 77. He died over ten years ago, not quite reaching his 67th birthday. It is somewhat alarming to think that in 16 years’ time I will be the same age as he was when he died. We are not very good at thinking honestly about death. But as I can’t buy into the cultural stories that are supposed to offer comfort, I design my own ritual of remembering my father’s life.
Cleaning up, I found an old picture. A snapshot in time, unposed and unfiltered, framed in white edging now a little tattered and torn. In it, I’m about 3 or 4 years old, I think, which means the photo was taken about 45 years ago. Almost half a century. That’s a conception of time that […]