This was originally published in my monthly newsletter, Notes from MP. I make it a point to not publish my newsletter essays anywhere, because I like to think of it as something exclusive just for my subscribers. This time, though, I’m making an exception, mostly because I can’t quite bring myself to write another piece about my dad this year. Today is the actual anniversary of his death and I couldn’t not share anything about him, so here goes. I hope you understand.
I don’t remember a lot from that day, truth be told. When I try to recollect what happened, I find myself picking up shards of memory and trying to figure out how they all piece together. The jagged edges cut my fingers, the pieces don’t fit together, and there are gaping holes in what I manage to recall.
I stopped trying to remember for a while, to be honest. It hurt too damn much to even try.
And so over time everything became fuzzy, like I was viewing it through a blurry lens. Certain things stood out more than others — of course there are parts I will never forget, no matter how old I may live to be — but the rest faded away.
But every now and then, I discover some information reminding me that even if I remembered everything from that day, there were parts of it I would never know for myself.
Like how he had a dying wish.