11.11

Tuesday was the second anniversary of my fathers death. He is the first and only person I have ever seen die. Our cells are built to cling to life, so that even when the soul has let go, there is a physical struggle that is unspeakable for the witnesses.
I guess I could try to see this positively as manifestation of the bodys' amazing will to live, but it's hard to not feel the bottom drop out of my gut when I think about it. So I try to think about how my father mentally left life. From the day his doctor gave him two weeks to live, my father said his goodbyes and lived his final days with grace, readiness and, even through the haze of morphine, a sense of humor. In our last conversation together, my father told me that his life had been an amazing journey. How blessed he felt to have the three of us children and how there were no words to express the love he felt for us. He counseled me to be patient with my mother in the time following, how at my age and with just a few years of marriage under my belt I could not possibly begin to imagine the impact of his passing would have on her. And he had a few regrets. One, not to see his grandchildren grow up. Two, not to have travelled more. Three, not to know how the last Harry Potter book turned out. He even managed to laugh at this one.
A life-long teacher, my father taught me so many important lessons throughout my life - to love literature, music and the arts, the value of loyal friendships, generosity, and honesty, and the importance of quality education. And he left with one final lesson; how to die.