In the years leading up to my father’s death, I’d been
preparing for it. He was diagnosed with cancer a decade ago and, since then,
his health slowly, but surely, deteriorated.
When it comes to grief, I learned no amount of mental preparation will suffice. Sure, I’d seen grandparents pass away, but this was different: this was my dad, the man who I both loved and at times loathed.
Going over the bridge to South Philly as a kid, I worried it would
collapse. I had no reason for the fear, it was just there. The sports stadiums
stood to the left, and the Navy Yard sprawled to our right. My father had the
window down and the cool air blew against my face, as well as the cigarette
Where does it hurt, dad?
I see the mind turning,
the drugs, the Reds, the volume on high:
anything to quiet inner voice.
What does it tell you, dad?
Don’t believe it;
I don’t care about your money,
or your conquests.
I love you for who you are: