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:
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
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