Nine years ago, I was sitting mindlessly in my office cubicle in Omaha, Nebraska, when the receptionist called to inform me that my dad was in the lobby. He needed my signature on some tax preparation forms before he handed them over to his accountant. It was a Friday in February, late morning
The Next Day
The next day is forever seared into the pathways of my hippocampus, every detail a tattoo on my mind’s eye. Because the next day….
- That’s the day my dad died.
- I remember the morning phone call I got from my sister at 9:38 a.m..
- Running to my car, half a block up Howard Street, and then another block down 12th Street, the wind and the stinging cold, the saplings lining the streets of downtown, the hospital, the stairs, the front desk, the waiting room, the faces, the hugs, the tears
Life is defined by moments like these
The most joyous or the most unbearably tragic. I miss my dad.
- I miss his laugh, his big heart, his lingering cologne, his clothes, and seeing him in my clothes.
- The things I never thought I’d miss, the quirks and ticks that drove me crazy.
I wonder if I chose to write this today instead of tomorrow because writing it tomorrow could prove too difficult.
Studies have shown that our brains are wired to prevent us from thinking about our own mortality.
- So, most of us, perhaps because of our biological wiring, rarely even think about the unfortunate truth that we’re going to die, and we have no idea how or when.
- On the other hand, some of our greatest ancient philosophers actually practiced reflecting on the impermanence of life-otherwise known as Memento Mori, which literally translates to Remember you must die.
