This piece of writing will likely change over the years and so, I don't know the best way to handle that. My father passed away in January of 2025, nearly six full months ago. It was one of the most devastating moments of my life.
I have several friends and colleagues who have lost their fathers at a young age, to consider myself lucky and grateful to have been loved by my own father is an understatement. Some do not have that luxury.
Of course, some do not have great relationships with their own fathers. Some have complicated relationships.
As the title of this piece suggests, this is a reflection on the death of my own father. It is not a reflection on what it means to be a father, but rather, an exploration of what my own father gave me up until his unexpected death.
Admittadly, it is still difficult to grasp. Grief is a tricky fellow. My father is both with me and severed from me. The memories he held of me, all gone. The proud moments, the moments of joy, of disappointment, of accomplishment are all gone. My biggest supporter and confidant is gone. One of my closest friends is gone.
My father is gone.
My eyes well writing these words. This is what it means to lose the ones you love the most in this life. Damn this life.