Wednesday, August 05, 2009

RIP William R. Barrowclough August 5, 1940 - October 7, 2007

It’s somewhat incredible to me that this is the second year my father has missed his own birthday. That he’s still gone, that I can’t call him to say hi, Happy Birthday, Daddy, what are you going to do on your special day? I was doing a crossword puzzle earlier and thought of him solving the daily puzzles in The Charlotte Observer, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, lost in thought over some clue, some elusive synonym. I remember Dad helping train me for my first marathon. I remember him driving into Boulder for the first time, exclaiming over the beauty of the mountains, the FlatIrons, this lovely little city. I remember him at my college graduation, bursting with pride, grinning and hugging and kissing me. And I remember him sick: I remember how cancer, its side effects and its aftermath ate alive his effervescent youth, his energy, his radiance, how it stole his appetite and his mobility, how it ate away at his tissues until he could not longer stand or walk, how it took his life away. But I also remember, a few weeks before he died, how excited he was to see me when I flew out to South Carolina to see him for what, I didn’t know then would be, the last time. How we talked for hours on end until he’d fall asleep, midsentence. How I helped take care of him as best I knew how, which admittedly wasn’t very well.

Boy, do I miss you, Dad. I love you.