My father died 23 years ago at the age of 60 on a day I did not notice, busy with my own life, far removed from his. It shouldn't have been that kind of day. There was no late night bedside call for a last-gasp farewell. I did not even know he was so close to death, and, I fear, had he lived another decade, I would have known no more in 1998 than I did in 1988. At some point, I became so focused on him not being a good father that I completely neglected being a good son.
I believed I had done what was best, surrendering to his belligerent determination to live life on his own terms, which turned out to be short-term. I'm not sure whathebelieved because I had long since quit asking or wondering or wanting to know.