Humberto Santos

April 4, 1944-October 24, 1997

My father died ten years ago today. I try to think of ten years as an arbitrary number but it's still hard not to think of a decade as being a significant marker.

Although, I do not want to celebrate the day of his death, but rather, celebrate my father's life.

My father still remains the standard by which I compare generosity, kindness, and compassion for others.

He taught me the importance of working hard but also equally important was playing hard. And I know I do both very well.

Dad, I think of you always. I will do my best to make you proud and will continue the work you have done, to help, guide, and encourage others as best as I am able.

*

I found a lovely poem by Li-Young Lee and wanted to share it with you all:

Little Father

I buried my father

in the sky.

Since then, the birds

clean and comb him every morning

and pull the blanket up to his chin

every night.

I buried my father underground.

Since then, my ladders

only climb down,

and all the earth has become a house

whose rooms are the hours, whose doors

stand open at evening, receiving

guest after guest.

Sometimes I see past them

to the tables spread for a wedding feast.

I buried my father in my heart.

Now he grows in me, my strange son,

my little root who won’t drink milk,

little pale foot sunk in unheard-of night,

little clock spring newly wet

in the fire, little grape, parent to the future

wine, a son the fruit of his own son,

little father I ransom with my life.

by Li-Young Lee