How to Honor the Dead

Spoiler: I have no idea

Tuesday will mark 20 years since my dad passed away. 

I’m currently in the process of writing an essay about my dad, though “currently in the process” sounds like a bit of a generous description for a piece of writing I haven’t touched in three months.

But, this essay isn’t an essay about how I haven’t finished another essay about my dad. 

I *think* this is about another thing entirely. I *think* it’s about the question I’m currently grappling with, which is: how do I honor my dad? 

I feel this need, this desire, this pull, to honor him. Specifically this year. Specifically on Tuesday, June 25th.

Technically there’s nothing that makes twenty years gone more significant than 19 or 21, but there’s a symbolism to it that I’m drawn to. 

There’s also nothing that makes June 25th more significant than June 24th or June 26th, other than the fact that it is more significant. 

It is, in fact, the date that he died. 

But, he has been dead every date since that date, and that’s what also makes every other date feel significant, too.  

With my dad at the beach. I love this picture.

I turned 40 two weeks ago. He will now officially have been gone for half of my life. That notion takes my breath away. I’m essentially a different person than my dad knew. When he left, I was still a bratty and selfish teenager. 

Now, I’m a bratty and selfish adult. (Kidding…🙃…) 

I’ve thought a lot over the years about writing about the night he died. It’s played over so many times in my head. So many times I’ve tried to stop the video tape, but some twisted part of my brain requires that I keep playing it from start to finish once it’s begun. No pausing. The story must play out. We must get to the one-sided goodbye. 

I realized I’m not ready (and maybe never will be). Or maybe I just don’t want to. Either way, it’s OK. 

And, to me, writing that story feels like a way of honoring my experience, not a way of honoring him.

I don’t need to honor someone by telling the end of their story. (Or, at least the end of their story in this lifetime.)

I suppose I’ve realized in the course of writing this that I can honor him however I wish. Silently. Or maybe out loud. By myself or with others. Doing something he would have loved or doing something I love. Thinking of him, speaking to him, connecting with him, remembering him. 

On June 25th, 2024 at his grave, with my mom, some flowers and a poem.

On a random Friday by the water. 

Auditioning for another play in a year or two.

In a few months when I repeat a silly phrase of his to my kiddo and say “as my dad used to say…” with a smile.

And maybe I’ve honored him in some small way by writing this thing about how I don’t quite know how to honor him.

Here’s to you, Dad.