Yeah, I know …

Wayne Graham and me, probably 1971 or 1972.

I know the last time I saw my dad alive.

He had been sick for some time by the summer of 1973. I knew he was sick because I could see it and because he’d told me so earlier that year. He’d apologized for berating me for “talking like a hippie” (I’d uttered some phrase that was popular at the moment) and told me that he was sick, that he didn’t feel good.

I was 12 and I knew then that that he was hurting. But I was 12 and I didn’t know that he was dying. I never once thought about him dying. He lived with diabetes and he’d gone blind in one eye but he went on about his life, never complaining, not out loud anyway.

There was nobody stronger, nobody tougher than Wayne Graham. Ask anybody.

And so it was that summer of ’73, in July. We had a lot of family and friends around, some staying with us. I was sleeping on a couch downstairs — I’m sure someone was using my bedroom upstairs.

Sometime in the middle of the night I heard an uncle, my dad’s brother, come in the house and go directly to my parents’ bedroom, where my dad was staying. I didn’t get up but a few minutes later my uncle came out carrying my dad, limp and wearing a white undershirt and pajama pants, over his shoulder.

They went out the door and into the night.

But I knew I’d see my dad again. I knew Wayne Graham would get better.

A couple of days later I awoke on that same sofa, early again but more around daybreak. There was already more activity than usual, even for that wacky summer.

I knew. I knew right then — I knew my dad had died. I was 12 and I was lying there in the dark and I knew. I just knew. I knew that I had been wrong before and I knew that I would never see my dad again.

An aunt, my mom’s sister, noticed my open eyes and I heard her tell my mother that I was awake. My mother came and sat down next to me and looked into my eyes. “Did he … ,” I asked her, without finishing. She nodded then she reached down and hugged me and we cried for a few minutes.

I didn’t know that his death would cleave my life — Before Wayne and After Wayne. On my grand timeline there’s Before, and there’s After. Everything changed and nothing else mattered as my mother held me that morning and let me cry.

I don’t remember much about the days after and the funeral — just a lot of people and a lot of activity. Oddly, I remember getting dressed for the funeral but not much else. I don’t know what that means.

I know how desperately I’ve missed him, every day since.

I know it gets worse every day.

—30—

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