Bill: The Death of My Biological Father

I really still don’t know what to do with this. These thoughts and feelings of, and around, the death of my biological father. I wrote this poem as a way to process it all. It’s safe to say I’m still processing. So, perhaps, the poem is just the start. I went back and forth with wanting and not wanting to share this for many reasons. Some of which is that ongoing process of letting go, or learning, or moving forward, or whatever it is that I’m doing with this. In any case, if you’re reading this, thank you. If you know what this all means, know that you’re not alone.

Bill: The Death of My Biological Father

My father just died.

I’m not even sure what to do with that.

How do I mourn the loss of someone who’s been gone for over half of my life? 

That’s just one of many questions he left me with.

That he left my brother with too.

Like a will written in riddles. 

He made many choices over many years.

The ones that had everything to do with my brother and me will never make sense now.

Would they ever?

Any and all answers died with him. 

His choices couldn’t have been clearer though.

He made so many choices.

“I won’t be a part time father.” 

He opted for being no father at all. 

I think at some point people started to see that saying I have my father’s eyes wasn’t the compliment they meant it as.

I didn’t know what that meant when I was younger

I didn’t know what I meant when I was younger

I just knew there wasn’t an immediate model to learn how to be a man by

(But I lost that long before he died)

I made my peace with the idea that the man I got my middle, and then last, name from had voluntarily left my life.

And that all of that defined me in more ways than I could, or ever will, possibly understand.

I was never at peace with that though

I’m still not

I don’t know how he did it

How he turned his back on two boys with such purpose and drive.

A model of being a man showing us that his only desire was to put himself as far away from my brother and me as he could.

That the hardest I can remember him working was for digging the largest gap he could between him and his sons.

So now I write this

Because he’s passed away

Because I really don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that

Am I sad for lost time?

Am I sad for a life lost?

I don’t know if it was wasted.

I don’t know if the energy and time I’m spending on every thought I’ve ever had for the man was, and is, a waste.

That at 3:something AM all I can do is think and write about a man that never showed he, at some point, ever thought about me,

Or my brother,

Is a waste.

This sure as hell isn’t a tribute to some great man.

There won’t ever be a tribute.

Not from me anyway.

I’m betting it won’t ever come from my brother either.

How do sons honor a man that acted without honorable mention? 

So I write. 

With all the thoughts and feelings that circle back to something simple.

But massive.

In showing me all the ways he did things, made choices,

Moved through his life,

Lived, then died, 

I know, concretely, fiercely, angrily, emotionally, and yes, even proudly,

The man I never want to be.  

The man I never want to be for _____.

The man I never want to be for anyone I love. 

The man I never want to be for anyone who loves me. 

Through choosing nothing, you gave me everything Bill. 

So, thank you for that. 

In showing me what not to do, I learned what to do.

It was a formidable and hard school to graduate from.

But, believe me,

This isn’t a backhanded thank you at all. 

In fact, it’s the only thanks you’ll ever get from me.