In the course of my life I have known many people who have died. I’m not referring primarily to those whom I have buried in the course of my priestly ministry. I’m talking about people I have known. Some have been relatives, some classmates, some friends and acquaintances. I think of them every now and again like on the anniversary of their death or if I come across an old photo or a holy card from their funeral stuck between the pages of a book. Sometimes it’s a song on the radio, an old episode of a TV show or a kind of food that may bring them to mind.
Then, there is my Father, Al. I have written about this before; how my grief for him continues and is always keenly felt at this time of year. May 31st marks six years since his passing. The odd thing is that, so far, my Dad has the distinction of being the one person in my life who, since he died, I have thought about every day. Every single day.
Until my Father passed away I had never experienced a grief like that before. I had grieved to be sure. There were deaths that were extremely hard to take and for many of those loved ones a pall of sorrow hung on me for a long time. But, there always came a time when I could let that go a bit and not call them to mind except every now and then.
With my Dad it was different. You see, when I was very young I idolized my Father as I think many little boys growing up in the 60s and 70s in the New York suburbs did. I can recall hearing his key in the front door at 18 Cedar Drive South in the small Long Island village of Old Bethpage and dropping everything to run and meet him half shouting-half singing, “Daaaaaaaddy’s hooooooome”. (That’s me in the pretty beat up photo with him on my first birthday in the kitchen of our L.I. home.)
Things changed when I got a bit older and I spent quite a few years being a little afraid of my Father and then growing distant from him and even kind of disliking him. I never stopped loving him and I never, not even for one second, felt like he didn’t love me but when I was a teenager I just didn’t seem to like or understand him very much.
Time, as it always does, changed things again and while the distance from my Father lasted well into my college years eventually the gap began to narrow again. As I grew older I also grew to become more like him and, suddenly, I could understand him so much more. I came to be genuinely close to my Father. We shared many common interests and I’m so happy that I overcame the fear of being affectionate with him. Long before he died I took many opportunities to tell him that I loved him and after years of a handshake or a wave I regressed to my boyhood greeting of kissing him hello and goodbye. In fact, at my first Mass as a priest my Parents presented the bread and wine to be used in the Mass. As they handed each item to me I kissed each of my Parents on the lips. Later, one of the other priests in attendance told me that the priest next to him leaned over and said, “Guy kissed his Dad on the mouth?” The other priest replied, “Well, you know, Guy is half Italian.” The first priest then quickly said, “Oh, well THAT makes sense then!”
What also returned to me as I grew older was an appreciation of how my Dad had always been around in my life. He always provided for us as a family and for me personally, he was always a rock upon which I could lean. I’ve been having a particularly stressful time in the last few weeks and I’ve been missing my Father so very, very much these days.
What I wouldn’t give to hear that familiar click as the key unlocks the door at 18 Cedar Drive South...







