I buried a stranger... My dad

I flew home, drove five hours across the county... I got home. I started the preparations for a funeral and a memorial of a stranger. It was hard writing his obituary... that is how I found out my dad's first name and his birthday. It seemed surreal in many ways. At his funeral, there were no flowers, no wailing no mourning. My sisters and brother did not show up to his funeral; and it seemed like my father was simply striken from existence with no one to regret his loss. It was disconcerting, in a way I wanted to relate to him. I wanted to bring good memories to mind, but in return I got nothing but silence and emptiness. This man, whom I never related to being my biological dad… but he was certainly not my father. I realized that I had nothing to tie me to him, not a particular smile, a pleasant or unpleasant memory to recall. Not a single instant in which I was connected to his soul. He existed; he labored, walked this earth and like a flash of light, he was gone with no one to lament his death… no one to say good bye except a strange daughter who knew as much about him as the next stranger in the streets.

At his grave site, not a candle, not a flower, not a picture to remind anyone that this human being existed; and was gone forever. I knelt down at his grave site; and my tears fell on the earth… the soil that at the moment engulfed his body... Hi, I said... I am here, I do not know if it means anything at all… I know I never knew you, but I am your daughter, and I care that you are gone. I laid flowers and lit a candle; I wiped my tears; and I felt a breeze that made my hair flow in the air... like a caressing father would say hi to his lost daughter. The closest I have ever been to my biological father… close yet separated by soil… the soil that makes a huge distinction between who is dead and who is alive. The connection lasted maybe one minute; I got up and left the cemetery... the weather cold and rainy... it was the longest walk of my life. I went back to the house where my dad once lived… the place now frigid with the sting of absence, silence and emptiness, but warm with all the memories that I missed. This house now seemed like an abandoned nest left to decay in the clutches of oblivion. As I sat down to plan and arrange a small memorial for my dad… I wanted desperately not to lose momentum and orchestrate a memorial where the rest of my dad’s family could celebrate his existence. However, something estrange happened at my father's memorial, his brother and sisters; cousins and friends showed up and mingled. However, no one shared a single good memory of my dad’s existence. These were just people busy, consumed with their lives, their kids, their spouses; a life that had no room for my dad who is now forever gone. My sister who grew up with him... uncaring, she never made it to the cemetery; my brother at no time responded to my request for him to attend our father’s memorial. No one said much about Federico; saying his name seem so alien to me now. After the memorial, I went home… to the place where I grew up…I hugged my adoptive father. I held on to him for a long time... I felt like I did the right thing, I gave my biological dad a burial. Now I was receiving love and support from my adoptive father like I always have. I tried to celebrate my dad’s life in a small memorial. I followed the Catholic tradition and paid for a mass in my dad’s memory. I bought flowers and filled his altar; nevertheless, I was not there for my dad as he died... I wish I was. Maybe I could have done more. I could have somehow helped more. I made no effort to be close to my dad, because you see...I had a father and my life has been filled with memories of that father. I just felt that getting close to my biological dad was a betrayal to the adoptive father who had given me everything.... Now I wonder if I erred in the way I interacted with my biological dad. I will never know. My only consolation is that I gave him the proper good bye; I did try to help him financially for the past ten years. That makes me an okay daughter... right? Now it’s all done. It is simple; I had a dad who gave me life and a father who gave me a life. The two were and never will be the same. Now I am nostalgic maybe, no in a romantic way, I don't  feel sorrow or regret that will make me bitter, happy or sad... I find myself appreciating things as they are. The perfect imperfection.... Life is just perfect the way it is. I think I am at a point where I realize now that the only things that matter to me are those to which I pour my heart into. I poured my heart into loving my father, and I poured my heart into burying my dad.