Maybe I am entering crazy terrain, although I prefer to refer to my current state of mind as inquisitive.
Last night, I went online and was searching for some record of my father's death. He died in 1986, I know that much. My last memories of him include: sitting in the passenger seat of his dark green truck and counting mile markers on the parkway; drawing fluffy, pliant clouds; and looking at his paperweights collection.
Since it was a Jewish funeral, I didn't see his body. The last I recall is going to the cemetery and seeing relatives uplift small piles of dirt, putting them into the ground.
Awhile ago, I found a site that listed someone with my father's name as a professional boxer from Brooklyn. Though I know he did not grow up in Brooklyn, the past few weeks have been spent with the assumption that my father boxed professionally and that, hey, maybe I could take up kickboxing at the gym and continue the legacy. After further research, the Brooklyn boxer's birth date does not match up to my father's.
There's someone in Florida with the same first and last name who was a victim in the Bernie Madoff investment scandal. Relatives on my father's side live in Florida, but, alas, the person could not be my father (large age difference).
I know he is dead, is gone, has passed away...whatever other euphemism one wants to use. I just feel angry that I have no connection to my father. I have thick, wavy, brown hair---just like him. I have an affinity for glass paperweights, which I have never really given much previous thought to before. That's about it.
When I was six and my father died, I am sure that I felt lost--not understanding the gravity of the situation. At 31, I don't know if I feel any more grounded.
Last night, I went online and was searching for some record of my father's death. He died in 1986, I know that much. My last memories of him include: sitting in the passenger seat of his dark green truck and counting mile markers on the parkway; drawing fluffy, pliant clouds; and looking at his paperweights collection.
Since it was a Jewish funeral, I didn't see his body. The last I recall is going to the cemetery and seeing relatives uplift small piles of dirt, putting them into the ground.
Awhile ago, I found a site that listed someone with my father's name as a professional boxer from Brooklyn. Though I know he did not grow up in Brooklyn, the past few weeks have been spent with the assumption that my father boxed professionally and that, hey, maybe I could take up kickboxing at the gym and continue the legacy. After further research, the Brooklyn boxer's birth date does not match up to my father's.
There's someone in Florida with the same first and last name who was a victim in the Bernie Madoff investment scandal. Relatives on my father's side live in Florida, but, alas, the person could not be my father (large age difference).
I know he is dead, is gone, has passed away...whatever other euphemism one wants to use. I just feel angry that I have no connection to my father. I have thick, wavy, brown hair---just like him. I have an affinity for glass paperweights, which I have never really given much previous thought to before. That's about it.
When I was six and my father died, I am sure that I felt lost--not understanding the gravity of the situation. At 31, I don't know if I feel any more grounded.
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