My Dad was killed in an accident in the forest. It happened two weeks after I had been to visit him on the island where he lived. During our visit I had talked about recording his stories, and he was excited about it. He even had a recorder and asked me to take it to town and get it fixed so that we could use it. And I did.
Then I received the phone call. My Dad was gone. And so too were all the details of all the wonderful stories that he used to tell me. Stories that I sometimes did not pay complete attention to because I was busy, worrying about my kids, caught up in my job and chores, and other seemingly important “things.” I felt guilty about not being there for him 100%. But he was healthy and active, and had a “to do” list for another 15 years. I thought I had lots of time – tomorrow, or next week, or even next year.
I can’t bring him back. I miss him dearly. And much as I try, I can’t remember all the amazing details of his stories.