Published November 1, 2020

It was November 1, 1980, but barely so. It still felt like Halloween night, because word came not long after I’d finally fallen asleep: My dad had died.

Lung cancer. Just a few weeks after the diagnosis.

Looking back, it still doesn’t seem real at times. A little more than 14 years later, I ended up in the hospital for the first time as a patient, and I all but confirmed that I was put in the room where he spent the last few weeks of his life, right there near the west end of the hall on the fourth floor. That doesn’t seem real either. Life has strange twists and turns.

There was a presidential election three days later. I remember almost nothing of it.

It’s been a long time since my dad appeared to me in a dream. Today I’ll light a candle for him and let him know I’m thinking about him.

There is a photo of his gravesite online. The second numeral in 1980 is missing. I don’t know if it’s since been replaced. The last time I visited the cemetery where he and my mom share a burial plot was a little more than 10 years ago, just before I moved to Oregon.

I don’t know what 40 years is supposed to feel like, but here in 2020, time has lost its meaning in many ways. Forty years ago seems like a lifetime ago, maybe two. And it also seems like a dream from the not so distant past.

This blog post has no ending, and today I will sit with that and with memories of my father.

Photo by Smileus/via Shutterstock