My Immortal Lightbulb

           The things I could say for my father aren't that many, and from that I could say he had a fun and entertaining childhood.  He told me of things, gave my curious mind some answers, and yet, there was always something else that made Papa so... special, I guess, is the appropriate word.

Papa was always the joker, lightening the mood with witty words and situations.  He lightened the heart, too, and always cared. He would lighten the mind, too, for as long as you ask him a question he could possibly answer, he would always break into witty answers.

Papa was practically an immortal lightbulb for all I know.

And while I still can’t decide whether it was unfortunately or fortunately, the light went out in the dead of the night of September 11, 2011 – seventeen days before he could possibly enjoy the day he was brought to this world.  Seventeen days before the day we would have celebrated the day the little lightbulb was bought.

It still hurts to look at his coffin knowing he won’t be able to suddenly snap his eyes open and break out of the white with crystal case then laugh at us for believing that it was all true.  Yet, it is gratifying to look at him and I feel just dandy that he has  risen up to a place where nothing can hurt him.

It’s like what one of my favorite characters said in an episode : “I don’t believe in God, Dad.  But I believe in us.”

Like I said, I feel just dandy knowing Papa raised me well enough to pass by the first few stages so quickly and be on the last level of grief: acceptance.

People are always asking me if I cried when I found out.  They’re always shocked when I shake my head, grin and tell them “NO”, then, laugh it off.  They’d think I’m mad; I’d turn on them and say, “Yes, I am”.   Well, mentally at least.

When I feel like I want to cry, I'd fight back the tears, knowing Papa wouldn't be happy of it.  I'd always think he'd shake his head and make a joke to cheer me up, and the image of it would pull me up into being the self I just know he'd want to see.  He'd want me to be strong enough to face fear and laugh right at its face.

You know writing this and reading it aloud made me think about how  I would sometimes overanalyze.  It made me think about an incident in which Papa overanalyzed  an image on the curtains and made it look as if the image of flowers was actually a man wearing sunglasses.

Ah, that was when I was innocent.  More innocent than I am now, at least.  I think.

Going over this, I just realized how much I missed Papa.  The sentence just made me think about how much I wouldn’t want him back anyway; there’s too much fun in heaven for him to miss and I would hate if I took them away from that.

Putting this to an abrupt end, I finally started to close the book.  I’d miss Papa, but I want him to have the best – I want him to rest.  But still it would hurt.  Oh, well, it’s time to refer to another quote from a fictional character: "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

GOODBYE Papa.  THANKS for everything.

(Jean Dorothy is  eleven years old and this was her message for his father during the burial rites.  Dorothy’s father died of colon cancer.