mnvnjnsn's Diary

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Rustic Pa

Yesterday would have been my father's 71st birthday, and it didn't even occur to me until last night. I feel ashamed that I didn't mention it yesterday.

As I get older, specific memories of my father get fewer and farther between. When I think of him, I can only see him posing in a picture, I have few memories left of him as an animate person. He is always dressed in the wide-collared shirts and polyester pants of the late seventies, his eyes crinkled into a smile, and the only thing moving is his cigarette smoke.

I've always thought he looked like Paul Newman, so sometimes when I'm trying to remember him I get Henry Gondorf instead. Conversely, I can't look at a bottle of salad dressing without thinking of Dad.

He's been dead for 21 years (Dad, not Paul Newman), more than half my life. That's more than half of all his daughters' lives. Maybe it's the Vicodin, but I've been staring at the screen for about half an hour thinking about him, trying not to be maudlin and, clearly, it's a losing battle. I can think of a million things I've done that would have disappointed him had he lived to see them.

But still, I really wish he had.

Damn it, I'm supposed to be funny. Where'd the funny go?
Note to self: 1 vicodin = funny, 4 vicodin = unspeakable melancholy.

12:38 p.m. - 2003-12-18


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