My father got early onset Alzheimer’s before I turned twenty, and died when I was twenty-three or maybe twenty-five. He died on Valentines Day, or the day after. I was living in Boston then. He was in a facility and had stopped remembering who I was long before I got the call.

George Colin Richmond was a charismatic man, the guy who had to pick up the check, make friends with my friends, charm the bartender at the local country club. I can hear him when the song “Something” by the Beatles comes on the radio, almost out of reach, but his soft voice is there, in the back of my mind, right on key. I can remember the way his back smelled, of milk, and was splattered by freckles, because of the Sunday morning backrubs he’d request when we were little. He liked an elbow to the right shoulder; he played tennis and worked too hard, so he had knots that required attention. I remember the way he liked his steak, rare, and his love of iceberg lettuce smothered with blue cheese.

I write all this, and I savor every memory because there aren’t that many of them.

I was about nineteen years old the day he told me something was wrong with him, and that he didn’t know what it was. He’d just come back from a month in rehab and had walked out of a business meeting. Standing in the parking lot of an old school, he said he wasn’t able to follow the conversation and was scared.

I don’t remember how I responded, if I hugged him, or told him it was going to be okay. I don’t remember if he gave me a ride home or if we talked later that night.

That was one of the hardest days of my life, and all I remember is about a minute and a half of a conversation, and it’s all pretty vague.

The years after were tough too. The first year after he was able to live at home, but it was clear that he needed more support than Mom or I could offer. I don’t believe we leaned on each other then, me or Mom or Dad. I think we were just tiny, spinning, planets of fear and grief, for the lives we had before he went away.

We had no real diagnosis, no prognosis for how it would progress. As days passed. he had no idea what was going on, who had stopped by to visit, or if he’d eaten lunch.

After he died, it did not get easier for me. There was a long time that I spiraled, in every sense of the word. I am not blaming those years on the death of my father. I am sad about the wasted time, and this stings a bit more now that I am sixty three. But I certainly have some interesting memories. When I caution my daughter I speak from real world experience. A big part of who I am now, came from the shitty decisions I made then.

I love to remember what my Dad’s voice sounded like when he sang along to the Beatles. Blue will always be my favorite color- I know, it’s almost everyone’s favorite color, but since it’s my favorite color because it was my Dad’s favorite color, blue belongs to me first. And my brother, if he wants it too. (Of course, I also look gorgeous in blue, but that’s neither here nor there.) I love to remember finding him at home in the afternoon, sitting at the dining room table, chair tilted back, eyes closed, listening to Sarah Vaughan, Oscar Peterson. albums scattered all over the wood, out of there covers. He was completed obsessed with the Wings song- “Someone’s Knockin’ at the Door”, which I will never understand.

I remember him sitting on a bean bag chair in my room, trying to have a conversation with me, and not knowing what to say to the teenage creature sitting on the bed. I remember him trying.

I remember when he saw me in that parking lot after that disastrous meeting, trying to talk to me then too.

In my forties, I finally found my footing, mostly. I had kids, got married, took care of pets, and woke up most mornings in the morning. I celebrate my family and friends with depth of appreciation that comes from deep in soul. And I know that I love my life so much is because I lost my dad. I am always aware of time passing, and that one five minute conversation can shatter a world.

I know I can not take the next conversation with my mom for granted, a night dancing to the Bleachers or Bruce, a really tough workout, a shopping trip with Amy, a hug from son, a kiss from Chanel, a container of yogurt from Debbie, some time near the water with James and Joyce, Sunday Brunch at 92.5 the River Radio Station, tea with Katie in Plymouth, and the best, always solicited advice from Alison.

I know that I can not be sure that tomorrow before the paper, Sheldon will present me with a cup of coffee, then stand over me to ask- have you tasted it? Is it okay? Need more sugar? Want me to put it on ice?

I can not be sure of anything or anyone because everything is going to change.

So I love the moments I have, and the people I share my life with as best I can every day.

I will always love my Dad, and hold him close. And I thank him for the lesson he taught me, even if it took me a little bit of time for me to figure it out.

Happy Father’s Day.

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