One year ago today my father “disappeared”—that’s how they would say it here in France: “mon père a disparu.” It really feels that way to me, as if my dad had been suddenly abducted and might just be in the other room now, or a phone call away. I could say that one year ago I lost my father. That feels right, too, because who really knows where kind men like him go when their time here is through. But his soul was simply too young to leave us altogether, his curiosity too vigorous. I wish to live long enough to cross his reincarnation on the street with a smile, or feel the cool shadow of his wingspan pass overhead—because I know my father always wished to fly.
Lost, but there are clues: every obscure village I find on a map; last week, mesmerized by a piece of experimental music, thirty-minutes of one note repeating, resolving to its octave, its ghost; sharing something new, original, and challenging with my children as he had done with me, as I would like to now with him, again. So many things I would like to do again or say again. Things I would like to say for the first time, though we made sure to say the important things. Better late than never.
Lost, but not so very far to find, you are with me on this day—with love—as I suspect you will be until my day. And beyond.