Today’s my dad’s eighth anniversary
I’ve already said everything I’m going to say about him:
…this stems, I guess, from my dad.
Other than as (earlier) a raging, drunken figure full of violence, and (later) a broken, sick man slumped on the couch, I don’t know really him. I can tell you his name, age at death, date of birth, the names (of some) of his immediate family, and such facts as his unquenchable love of Guinness and dedication to donating blood no matter how he was, good or ill.
I don’t know much more than this for sure because I never really spoke to him when I could avoid it. I don’t regret this! Dad wasn’t the most positive or pleasant figure in my life, and I absolutely don’t regret my alienation from him. He’s been in his grave for seven years, so it is a tad too late for reconciliations. I also consider my interest in him to be purely intellectual because we’re cut from the same cloth. Dad and I are both temperamental, sarcastic and proud men who prefer our own company above that of others. I’ve battled severe depression. I think that dad was depressed too.