Thirty

Thirty years ago today, about this time in the afternoon, my dad came home from work early. It was his last day of work. It was his last day.

A heart attack, his second, took his life a few hours later. I mark this day every year, an anniversary of mourning. Other dates slip in and out of my memory, but June 28, 1982 has always been the day. The day everything changed, though I was too young to understand how. Even the few memories I have before that day are colored by what June 28 would bring. The hallway in front of my bedroom, where my dad eased himself to the floor, is a bottleneck in time and space. Everything before and after travelled through that pinchpoint to arrive here.

And here we are. How would things be different? What lessons would I have learned from him? What injuries would we have inflicted on each other? Would he respect what I have become? These are the kinds of questions I ask, especially on the big round number anniversaries.