I’ll be 60 years old in a few months, an age that as I write this, seems a bit shocking. When people reach the cusp of senior citizenry they naturally begin seeing an up-tick in the number of familiar obituaries or notes from far-flung places that so and so has died. Sometimes unexpectedly, like a friend I lost today, or sometimes after some ghastly illness that makes me want to go ballistic at the ne’er die with dignity crowd — unable to let someone die in peace without taking one last stab at how they should run their life.
I became my mother’s parent very young. She was mentally ill and it fell to me to care for her (and sometimes my mentally ill grandmother and sister’s daughter). It left many scars, and I’d not wish the experience on anyone, but there was some goodness in it. At only six or seven I didn’t even understand that it. She died young and it wasn’t until then that I really understood our relationship.
With my Dad, it was completely different. I knew the exact moment he became my child.
My father was an air traffic controller. He weathered the strange shifts and pressures of his job and an uncontrollable life. He was quick-tempered and aggressively decisive, but also a kind man. Although I had to shoulder an unfair and huge burden I always knew he loved me and that given the ability he would’ve made my life entirely different.
About the only thing America can agree on is that Trayvon Martin is dead. He’s deceased. He no longer is. He’s not coming back. However, that salient fact is getting lost in a side-choosing scramble that makes the Republican primaries look positively dignified by comparison.