This year, my dad would have turned 65. This year marks five years since his death. How time flies. We weren't close, not for a long time; the number of times he came to see me can be counted on one hand, though that could have had something to do with my mom: she hated his very being, and she had every reason to. Of course, he didn't really put in any effort to keep in touch. It definitely colored him as an emotionally distant, cold-hearted man in my eyes during my formative years; wouldn't you feel slighted if your dad didn't show for your high school graduation? That isn't to say that he didn't have any redeeming qualities. He was a gifted musician; despite having no formal training, he had taught himself how to play several instruments, most notably the guitar. Oh, could he make a guitar sing; I can fondly recall sitting on our living room floor listening to him ply his craft. I have since come into possession of his prized guitar; a long-time friend of his dropped it off at my house last year. While I'm happy to have it (I had long since given it up as lost), I'm nowhere near the musician he was. It now sits in a dusty corner of my living room, as silent as it had been since its original owner passed on. It's as poetic as it is sad. A major battle ensued over his instruments after his death: his mandolin, fiddle, banjo, and, most importantly, his guitar; the fact that they weren't immediately turned over to his children (read, my sister and I) soured many relationships, including that between me and my mother and sister. I have yet to confirm to them that I have it; partly from selfishness, partly because I don't want further abuse directed toward me. Some wounds just cut too deep to simply shrug off. Dad was cremated, as per his wishes. He had been overheard saying that he couldn't stand the idea of being laid in the cold, cold ground. Each attending family member was given a handful of his ashes to scatter at the base of an old oak tree in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas; what remained after was sent to his ex-wife, my mother. My sister wept openly when she set eyes upon his last earthly remains; his death affected her quite possibly the hardest of everyone attending. I'm sure that my uncharacteristic stoicism was noticed that day, for I remained silent the entire afternoon, even when the time came for people to say a word about the deceased. Better to say nothing than to speak ill of the dead, I thought to myself. I had no photos of my dad, not for a very long time; when I moved out, I didn't have time to collect photos or keepsakes. It wasn't until my last trip back home, last October, that I met with one his old friends. He was helping his daughter and son-in-law pack for a move into a house across town, but he went out of his way to unpack a box to look for a picture for me to keep. I looked down at that picture for a good ten minutes as he just talked about all the things he and my dad did, and... ...For the first time since the family broke apart, I missed him. I had had tears before, but not like these. These tears were of genuine sadness, and they sprung up, unbidden, and flowed down my face. Seeing me in such a way, my dad's old friend put a hand on my shoulder while his daughter just hugged me. It was comforting, knowing that I could trust and confide in these people; it truly is as Guy Clark once said: old friends, they shine like diamonds. And friendship like that is more valuable to me than all the money in the world.
