there are never enough words.

Today is Father's Day, which is always a weird one for me. (I've talked about my father's death before, so I'm sure that comes as no surprise to those of you who are keeping up.) People on Twitter are talking about the things their fathers taught them, and I've tried to come up with something within 140 characters, but there's so much to say. With what he taught me, both through his positive and negative behavior...I can't sum it up so succinctly.

In life, my father taught me that learning for the sake of learning is worthy. My father taught me that compassion for the underdog is a necessity. My father taught me that forgiveness for those who are inextricably tied into your life is invaluable. My father taught me that the person who seems the most stoic and strong can also be the person that needs the most support. He taught me that generosity is one of the few things that is unregrettable. He taught me how small things, like calling at midnight on a birthday, can make someone feel unbelievably special and valued. He taught me that love can remain perpetual, although it may change, through time and conflict.

In death, my father taught me that vulnerability is a gift you give others. My father taught me that self-destruction isn't inevitable, or sustainable as an integral part of one's identity. My father taught me that an individual can be completely blind to the depth of their impact on others. His death taught me that ultimately everyone is alone, and that learning to be comfortable in the balance between solitude and loneliness is indispensable. He taught me that vanity and pride are terrible reasons to not reach out when you lack the resources to rebuild after personal disaster.

I wish I could've given him more when he was falling apart. I wish the last time I saw him wasn't a year before his death, when he was coming out of a coma induced by his own feeble attempt to stop drinking. I wish I hadn't left for some shitty bookstore job because I had somehow reasoned that this was somehow more important than staying by his side, and that I had known how much help he needed. I wish I'd known how to assure him that I still loved him, even when his alcoholism led him to behave in outrageously hurtful ways. I wish I'd known enough to see his anger as a defense mechanism, rather than an abandonment. Although I know that I did the best I could with the knowledge I had at the time, I find that these regrets have been indelibly woven into my conscience.

More than anything, I wish I could tell him all that he has done for me, even in his absence. He had no idea how important he was, and that hurts. If only he knew. If only. It's further evidence that the wisdom and experience that comes with being fifty two is not enough to keep someone from feeling small and worthless.

I want to believe that the person I have become is someone he would still be proud of. I've never missed anyone as much as I miss him. I wish he was alive, even if he was still all fucked up, just so I could call him and yell at him. I never realized that simply knowing someone is alive in the world, even when your relationship is imbued with contentiousness, is a gift.

Happy Father's Day, Daddio. You're still tops to me.