The Time We're Gone And We Don't Know Where

Today, it's been a year since Dad died. In the month of his decline, we burst into tears, we burst into song and broke into the liquor cabinet. Yesterday, I wondered where Dad's Andres Segovia records went, though I suppose that doesn't matter anymore. We have video!



The man born on Mother's Day and dead on April Fool's would want you to raise a glass, read a good book, see or hear good art or eat a good meal in his honor, if you were so inclined, but he wouldn't permit false piety or that Above all, he loved his family shit. No, he was surprised when we found our asses with our own hands. During his last weeks, he showed us trays and trays of slides of his travels when he left most of us in 1973; he wanted his gaggle of unruly children to quietly see his life unfold in haunting gorgeous pictures. He growled most of he time, very angry at the universe that cut short his plans. There we were in a dark room, watching his travels through Brussels, Paris, Budapest, Iceland, Lichtenstein, Prague -

Tata: Hey! That's a Wankel engine!
Dad: It IS a Wankel engine!

In the dark, I could feel the white=hot glares of my sisters and brother, but Dad was an ounce less furious for a few seconds. He was not a patient man; he was very, very funny. I don't miss arguing with him.

Dad: (angry) You there! Complaints?
Tata: All your goddamn measuring cups are righthanded!
Dad: (laughing) I understand!

Maybe I miss it a little.