It’s hard to believe. My dad died on this day 11 years ago. I don’t know if it ever really gets any less painful, but there’s a day when his absence went from being a source of anguish to just another fact of life.
My mom, my brother Elliot, and I visited the cemetery on Sunday. It’s an annual ritual for us, a physical place to connect the many memories and emotions for a short time. It was Elliot’s idea to leave the Dodger can insulator.
I’ve written at some length of my dad, and of his death. Last year at this time, I wrote a few words and added a few that my cousin Jim Ostroff had sent me remembering my dad. I’ve also posted some of his pictures, including a photo album he kept during the war and just after.
It’s been more than 4,000 days, and the one hasn’t come yet where there isn’t something I wanted to tell him—a joke, an anecdote, a development in one of the esoteric fields he always seemed to know a lot about.