Four years ago today. And as I’ve alluded to several times here at the Crisis (most recently here), the sense of loss has never been so acute as during the last six months. Yes, another anniversary passed by this week and, uncharacteristically, it went unnoted till now: November 6 marked six months since I was informed my marriage was ending.

The two losses have become so entwined, and I’m not fully equipped to say why. My therapist says perhaps my mourning was incomplete back then in ‘06; I think that’s true. The sense of sadness over losing him was quickly overwhelmed with dissatisfaction over work and the lingering problems in my marriage, which soon enough became compounded for other reasons. Then I threw myself into the solo show, which at first was going to be totally about him but morphed into reflections on another lost love, though he had a role to play in that story as well. The solo show set off its own frustrations, which led, in part, to finally deciding to leave Chicago (and launch C?WC?). From the gloomy perspective of the New Crisis, it sometimes seems that the last six years have been nothing but a concatenation of struggle and loss and disappointment. And loneliness, even before six months ago. Though there were happy moments, always happy moments. And there was love. At least for me.

As much as I wanted to be in Chicago, not knowing it would be sewing the seeds of another kind of death, I resented a bit that my time there kept me from seeing him as much as I would have liked, at the end. Kept me from the wedding that marked the last time my family was completely together, as happy as our dysfunctions allow us to be. Kept me from a clear memory of the last time I spoke to him and he could hear, respond. There’s just a hazy image of another goodbye at my parents’ house as we set off back to Chicago. But we would back soon, that coming Christmas. Plenty more time to talk to him again. Say “I love you” again and hear it in return.

Never assume that Christmas, that next chance, will come.

Of course now, as I’ve said, I long for the comfort I know he would have supplied during the New Crisis. The concern for my welfare; maybe the secretly sneaked 20 here or there if he feared my finances were rocky; the hugs and the slightly sad way he’d call me “Micling,” borrowing the Fubinese dialect of his mother-in-law, my long-dead grandmother. She sometimes called me that when I was a kid; only he still used when I grew up. Hearing it later on always brought me back to those simpler years, and the image of  a much more youthful him, always on the go, always ready to lend a hand or offer a warm smile to everyone around him. And especially his family. His beloved family.

Can tears short-circuit a laptop?

I don’t want to find out. Best to stop now. I’ve made my tributes before. Nothing left to say. Except he is gone now four years today, and I still miss him so. Never more than  now.

June 16, 1922 - November 10, 2006. Still so close, in so many ways.

RIP, Bernie–“Red”–Dad.


~ by mburgan on November 10, 2010.

3 Responses to “Anniversaries”

  1. […] quite a bit lately (Yes, I know, a cheery topic for your pleasure reading). Not just because of the anniversary of my father’s death. Not because I almost just asphyxiated myself in my Taos hotel room (more on that later). It’s […]

  2. It’s been over 20 years since I lost my Dad, and I still think of him almost every day. I’ve never stopped missing him.

  3. Judging from some of the comments on a friend’s FB page about the recent loss of her mother, a lot of people feel like you. Yeah, I can’t imagine ever not missing him.

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