Throughout my early life, I infrequently had a very vague memory. It was so mere, that it didn’t even actually register as a memory the way that we remember our day-to-day activities. But it was there, and emerged from somewhere deep every few years for no discernible reason. I could not even describe it other than in euphemistic terms. It was the experience of a sensation like lightning in a fluffy cloud. Because it was meaningless and ephemeral and disassociated with anything tangible, it didn’t hold a place in my consciousness. The very rare times it bubbled up into my consciousness, it was interesting to experience, but pushed back down as without contextual meaning or value.

My father was orphaned at an early age and so having a family of his own took on a special significance for him. Particularly for a man who never knew his father, having four sons was a special gift, I’m sure. He was a good man and worked hard to support us. He invested time in us as a scout leader, ensuring that we had good skills and guidance, and much more. Our family developed as a mini-patriarchy. It was rough and tumble, and full of unwieldy masculinity, sometimes too much for our mom to endure. I cannot even tell you how many times I heard her say ‘I am NEVER going camping with you all again!’

Then, when I was about 33, my father had a stroke at the age 58. It was a terrible time in our family, and nothing could have prepared me for it. We were suddenly all rudderless, without our brilliant, larger-than-life, alpha-male pack leader. He was in and out of a coma for about three weeks, and then, while in intensive care, he had another stroke, more devastating, and we were told that he would not survive it. As he lay dying, we each had an opportunity to visit with him for a few moments. As I drew in to kiss his cheek, I felt the stubble of his unshaven face and realized for the first time, that the ephemeral memory of the lightning in the cloud was of this man holding me up to his face when I was an infant. I sobbed.