My father, Poulon Angel, died on Easter morning. He was fifty-six.
There really aren't any words to describe how I feel so I suppose I still feel numb.
My father was my listening ear. He was the last and the gentlest to point out my mistakes. We would walk or drive for hours talking about religion, politics, love, fate. He was utterly unable to be judgmental of anyone. He never said a harsh, sarcastic or hurtful word. He was calm, especially when I was rattled. He never played the victim, never gave in to anger and never complained, even when being a dark-skinned, gentle man seemed to complicate his life. In his stillness, he never allowed my very intense, powerful mother to overpower him. They were equals and both of them knew it and celebrated it.
Without him, my mom and I sit now, sometimes for hours, and stare at each other. We don't know what to say. Sex? Boys? Girls? Dancing? Menstruation? Fear? I never talked to my mom about any of this. My father explained life to me with a certain careful matter of factness that never came with questions or platitudes. My mother was the one who threw my date out my bedroom window when I was sixteen.
I told my father once, "What if I never find a man as perfect as you are?" He laughed and said, "Then I suppose you'll have to find a woman." I always thought that was the most original response a father could give a daughter.
I will miss his dry sense of humor, his unwavering loyalty, his honesty and sincerity. I will miss our walks. I will miss our drives. I will miss that one person that never, no matter how wrong I was, found fault with me, or blamed me, or turned away from me.
I will miss him because he is my father but more so because he is my friend.
E.J.
