Friday, November 18, 2005


I was aimlessly making paper airplanes today in class, folding the paper in that slick way that I do, when I remembered that my father had taught me that airplane trick. We were sitting one night at the kitchen counter, I was procrastinating on my homework and making some pretty poor airplanes. He sat down next to me, his mascuiline odor drawing me in. Dad smoothed the paper out, folded it in this amazing way I had never seen, and threw the airplane across the room. It breezed for a good ten seconds before making a near perfect landing. I was astonished. He made me do it a couple of times before I got the folding right, and finally made an excellent paper airplane. Somehow, as a child, I was always so proud my father could make these amazing flying things. So I remembered that memory of him today, and it made me smile.

Which made me realize today, November 18th, he'd been dead for exactly ten years. It's funny how I've almost lived as much of my life without him as I did with him. Everything he did still influences me and the way I live my life. Every day I think about him, and wonder what he would have thought of me. I'll always miss him.


Papa Bill said...

So, where were you? You missed me being the class pinata again.
You may find it surprising that my father is still alive (89 years old and living with a much younger woman in Arizona). Hell of a story, actually. I'll tell you sometime.

Nile said...


A very moving post. Losing a parent leaves an incredibly large hole that eventually gets papered over so that you can function, but it's always there, and every so often it hits you like a punch in the gut: my parent is dead.