march 1998.

Nine years ago, in March, my father dropped dead on the corner of 32nd Street and Madison Avenue, in front of a green wooden bench opposite the entrance to the science library there. I was still inside, lingering in the magazine lounge, flipping disinterestedly through an issue of Variety magazine, making sure not to arrive early for our arranged meeting time just through the doors. He was going to jog to the library from his office -- fifteen blocks or so, less than a mile -- and from there, we were going to walk home to Spring Street, where the plan was to make some kind of simple dinner. I can't remember what was on the menu, but I remember we were going to use the toaster oven.

Maybe if I hadn't let those 5? 7? 10? minutes pass, loitering in the library, I would have said something to my father's face that day and been sure that he'd heard me. But by the time I stepped outside and saw the small crowd of people gathered around a figure lying on the ground -- is that Dad's orange running jacket? -- I could not be sure that anything I said, questions I asked, pleas I made, were registered by him.

I do not remember if I approached the growing crowd of onlookers slowly (I did not want to be involved) or quickly. I do not remember when I realized it was my father on the ground. I remember looking at his face and asking if he could hear me. I remember someone calling 911, looking up at him? her?, thankful that someone in the crowd had a cell phone at all. I remember telling them something about my father's age? name? medical history? I remember sirens and I remember forgetting just about everything I'd learned in that CPR class. I remember thinking that maybe he'd snap out of it, settle out of it, and wake up and talk to me. And we'd go home and make chicken nuggets or corn dogs or whatever frozen dinner I'd been looking forward to.

Even today, most of my friends don't know the details of that day. The fact that my father died when I was still sixteen years-old is strangely both one of those things that is incredibly private, and yet, widely known. Having dead parents seems to be the elephant in the room, that way.

Yesterday a beloved character on a television show lost his father to cancer. At the end of the episode, another character finds him standing outside looking into a damp, dark Seattle night, and he says to her:

"I don't know how to live a world where my dad doesn't."

And she replies,

"Yeah. That never really changes."

I feel a little embarrassed saying this, especially about a television drama, but the sentiment resounded with me very deeply.