Remembering My Dad

My dad was born March 8, 1930. He would have been 81 this year. However, we are coming up on nearly 40 years since he passed from brain cancer. I think this birthday is particularly poignant as Barry is gone as well, far too young, also from cancer.
My best memories of my dad was his voice. Andrea Boccelli brings me to tears as his voice is similar to my dad's. And his whistling! It was absolutely beautiful, perfect and melodious. My dad would sing to us while we were in the bathtub. The gift he gave me was my love of music, and to hear as much of it as I could. My sister inherited his beautiful voice.
I remember the day I had the premonition. We were at the annual parade in Santa Rosa. My dad put his hand on my shoulder, and it went through me like an electric shock. I knew we were going to lose him soon, and it would be on Christmas day. I began to cry. When asked the reason for the tears I kept my fears to myself and said they were tears of happiness.
The cancer struck when we were in high school. He was given only six months to live, but he fought bravely for two years. My time in high school was a blur as our family struggled with him to battle this disease. I remember telling my mother of my premonition years ago, and how I was afraid. She said she was afraid, too.
My father died in my mother's and my arms one dark and cold Christmas morning in 1975. It was that day I truly learned of life beyond this one: as he passed, there was a gathering of light within his body. It was like a huge bright ball of energy and moved rapidly from his chest to his face, which glowed for a moment. Then, upward, in a puff of smoke.
My mother's first words after he passed were: That was beautiful.
Then, the drive back home: everywhere cars darted about on the rain slick streets, filled with presents and smiling faces. I looked at my mother's face, and she was in shock.
I liken the loss of a loved one like losing an arm: you can and do manage to go on, but you'll never be the same without it. And so it was with this first and profound loss in my young life.
My mother remarried a precious, wonderful man whom I love as a father. What makes him even more special is he made her happy again. And, with time, we were able to put up a Christmas tree. There are still times Christmas music will bring a lump in my throat. There are also times I'm angry for all the life passages he wasn't here to witness: my wedding, my daughter's birth. The unfairness of it all has never left me.
I always wonder what life would had been like had my dad been able to finish his life here on Earth - how many more people would have have touched, what other contributions would he have made. He was a brilliant man and was beloved by many people. And now my sister's children will be left with these same unanswered questions. Those who have lost loved ones well before their time ponder these same questions I am sure. But at least we have our memories, and unlike my Dad's physical presence, they cannot be taken away.
I am blessed and grateful for the short time I had my Dad. I just wish there had been more.