Monday, September 1, 2008


My dad died. It was the third strangest occurrence in my life. I'm still not quite sure how to process it, and it's been three years. I've only gone to visit his grave twice -- he understands.

His funeral was kind of a blur. I remember that my uncle John almost fell into the grave when he tripped as they brought my dad's coffin over. I would have laughed out loud except my mother was bawling. I have this random tendency towards humor when things are looking grim, although honestly, my dad probably would have laughed too.

My older brother couldn't really get through his eulogy because he got a little choked up, and the Avinator kept running around like super freak overly sugared (which I'm sure she was because I had spent so much time at the hospital for the days up til then that I can't remember how many treats she was consuming).

My family was 35 minutes late for the funeral (I probably could have predicted this, and it would have also made dad laugh because it was so typical) so I had to stand around with a few people I knew that had come to support me for a bit before they showed up. Props to the peeps.

My grandmother and uncle arrived at 1:45pm, drive straight to the funeral, came to the house for some food, and turned around and flew right back out again at 7pm. They made it home in time to throw some clothes in the car and get the hell out of N.O. before Katrina. They were homeless after that for at least 6 months, which is hard on a 80 year old woman.

Today, they're on the run again (although after dealing with hurricanes for this long, I would have just moved), and I went to visit my dad. I wanted to introduce Leo to him. Just as we pulled up, and I went around to let the Avinator out (Line was still asleep), large drops came down. I looked up and said 'Avinator, we'll need to make a dash for it if you still want to say hi.' To which she replied, 'Grandpa wants us to, silly.'

We ran over to his grave, stood by his headstone, and yelled 'Hi Grandpa/Dad. It's pouring on us. We love you.' and booked it back to the car.

As I was driving off, I remembered my dad saying, 'Don't visit me and don't bring flowers. Flowers are for the living. That's pathetic and I won't even be there anyway. That's just the old shell and all its limitations that I'll finally be rid of.'

His limitations tortured him his entire life (even led to his death), and yet he still recognized them. It's interesting to me when I see my own limitations, get frustrated over them, and want to be done dealing with them as soon as possible. I'm glad I was also reminded today that we can get over them, and here is the best place/time to do it.

I love you, daddy.