My friend’s father passed away gently the other night. He had been chronically ill for three years and then, as it often happens, he deteriorated at a rapid and startling pace.

I read his obituary.  I was stunned.  The jovial, good-natured man I remember from my college years and my friend’s wedding was a marine in WWII.  The things he saw at such a young age could have shattered a person forever.  And then he joined the FBI, in counter-intelligence. He must have had a gun, although this image is totally incongruous with the person I remember.  Maybe he was the slightly rumpled government agent, world-weary yet a never-failing optimist — the quiet hero of our dreams and aspirations.  Maybe it doesn’t matter.  All I know is that my friend loved and respected her father and that makes him a hero.

He had sparkling eyes, was upbeat in nature, liked talking to people and was so proud of his daughter.  In my mind’s eye, I remember him as sitting with other parents at some graduation party, beaming and happy.  Of course, we, the graduates, were in a constant alcohol stupor and so the rest of the memory is a little vague.  Was it at the party my parents threw in one of the condo communities near the campus?  Those of you who might remember, please correct me if I am wrong.

A person lives an allotted number of years on earth and then, if you believe, abides in the hereafter.  A person also lives through that person’s impact on us — whether by DNA or nurture.  Whether good or bad, it is inescapable.  My friend resembles her father and, like her father, is kind and loves a good laugh.  He lives on in her (and her siblings) and her children (and their children).  I hope that my friend feels the portion of her dad’s soul that he put in her as he left this world.  I felt that happen when my mom died and she is an everyday part of me.

The hard part is after the rituals of death, when the world keeps moving and the carousel of time keeps spinning.  It is just brutal.