It’s hard to know exactly where to start. What to think. What to say. What to do. When your parent dies.

We focus on those around us. We focus on ‘arrangements’. We focus on taking care of the business required to manage their passing.

And I suppose that’s a good thing. Because it temporarily shifts our focus from the sad truth: That we will never see them again.

We will never know of the memories they may have made. Like witnessing their grandchildren’s incredible accomplishments.

We will never know of the places they may have seen. Traveling the world with their lifelong love.

We will never know of the words they may have spoken.

Perhaps a story of the hard times they endured, and the lessons they learned. Perhaps an account of the times they’re least proud of, or those times for which they are truly, truly grateful.

Perhaps the words of an apology, or an admission. Or a rare glimpse into their vulnerability, which for a child (even grown), is always hidden for ‘our sake’.

And we will always wonder what they may have been. Even in the last chapter of their lives.

My father was a complex man.

A man like I’ve never known.

A combination of strength and fragility that none of us (certainly me) can really understand. But that most of us can probably relate to. And that all of us are most assuredly, afraid of.

My father was the type of man who a person could simultaneously loathe, and love. Who could be abrasive yet warm, simple yet extraordinarily intelligent.

My father was the type of man who could simultaneously drive a person away, and yet provide them with a loyalty that is absolutely unmatched.

If you became a person that Cornelius Edward Kalaher loved, then you were a person for which he would take a bullet. And I am not in any sense whatsoever talking metaphorically.

My father was a complex man.

His outward strength was only matched by his internal weakness.
His razor-sharp tongue only matched by his occasional infectious charm.

It’s hard to know exactly where to start when you write about your father. About his passing. About the way it makes you feel. About your thoughts of what could have been…about what should have been.

It’s hard to know exactly where to start when you think about moving forward in a way that honors his memory.

But here is where I’m going to start:

Dad… I have been angry, for a very long time. I have been angry at what I’ve perceived to be your unwillingness to prioritize life. To prioritize the love and hope we had for you, and in you.

I have been angry that you could not consistently step forward and into the man that you were so obviously capable of being.

And I have been angry that I have failed to make a big enough difference in your journey to help guide you back to good health.

I have been angry, for a long time. But I do not want to be angry anymore.

I want to remember your strength. Your intellect. Your loyalty. Your love of family.

I want to focus on the positive traits that you have given me, and to ask myself every day if I’m living up to the man I’m capable of being…the one that would make you the most proud.

Most of all, I want to focus on channeling the best of you, into my children.

I haven’t figured it out yet…how exactly to do that. But I will. I promise.

I promise we will remember our Papa, and that we will remember his best.

I promise that I will not let you pass in vain.

I promise that I will learn from this. And that your legacy will be reflected in my actions, and in my family.

I love you, Dad.

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