akirali

I can't fully become my mother's guiding light
Till my dad returns to tell me what the other side is like
I keep the things you taught trapped in mind
I know you cared even though you weren't here half the time
But who am I to blame
I'd probably do the same in your shoes
I never held that against you
Complained or assumed
You never went through what I'm living
Hell who am I kidding?
Depression is practically part of family tradition
So I keep the time we shared close
It sucks to lose
It also sucks we had to share the month of June
I would've shared eternal time before I left
Each month I celebrate my birth
I'm reminded of your death
-Copywrite 78

Technically it's not the same month, but it's close enough.
When I was a child, my father and I were best friends. Whenever we'd go for a drive somewhere, I'd call him Batman, he'd call me Robin and we'd hop into his silver Ford Thunderbird which we (obviously) dubbed the Batmobile. When my mother would work the Friday night-Saturday morning graveyard shift at the hospital, we would drop her off and then have our MMM (Moore Men's Meeting). This would consist of junk food (usually pizza or cheesesteaks) and TV or movies. Well I should say movie there really was only one movie that we watched all the time, Enter the Dragon. Pizza, Bruce Lee, and SCTV later. Life didn't get much better for a 6 year-old and his hero.
My father fanned the flames of my love for technology at a young age. Of course we had an Atari 5200 and Intellivision. They were all well and good, but the real cool item was the Commodore 64 that we had. It was especially cool the way that my father would take a 2" thick book of code, pick a program, and spend hours at the keybord coding a game and recording it on an audio tape for me to play when I got home. He always made sure that we had tons of programs and games to keep me busy on the computer.
We also used to go out for hikes quite often in nearby Fairmount Park. But it was never simply a hike. We were always ninjas or commandos making ouy way though dense underbrush. He taught me that the most important thing to have on a hike is a suitible walking stick, to this day it's still a priority for me before I do any hiking. I still have his last walking stick.
He used to take me to his office afterhours to show me where he worked and let me run around and turn the entire floor belonging to US Sprint into my own personal playground. He also gave me his old briefcase when he didn't need it anymore as well as some pens and stationary so I could pretend that I worked like my dad did. I admired him so much.
Then I became a teenager. I became a childish fucking brat. I argued, talked back, got into physical fights, and verbal fights with him. And for the life of me I can't figure out why, other then I had some twisted idea that he was trying to oppress me and not let me grow-up. Quite the opposite he was helping me to grow-up the right way. I never appreciated it until it was too late. Even when he got sick and needed to quit his job and start up dialysis, I still argued and fought with him. What the fuck was my problem? I have no excuses, only remorse.
When I moved out to go to college, our relationship improved. We're both hard-headed and stubborn individuals, so we never addressed our reconciliation directly, we just started talking like friends again. We talked about TV, sci-fi, wrestling, anime and, of course, movies.
My father loved movies. He loved everything about them. The actors, directors, writers, composers, etc. He was the biggest movie geek I knew, and it was always secretly my goal to know more about movies then he did. Two of my favorite memories of my father revolve around movies. The first is when he offered to write me a note to get me out of school so we could see The Crow the day it came out. I was such a fucking poindexter at 13 that I refused. I didnt wanna get into trouble. I was too scared to cut school even with permission from my father. What a fucking idiot I was. I could tell he was disappointed in me. We did eventually go and had a great time. Then, 5 years later, the year he died, he offered to see The Matrix with me on a school day. This time I agreed. He picked me up from campus and we went to see a movie together for the second to last time. The last time would be when we dragged my mother and brother back with us that weekend.
The last thing I said to my father was "don't forget to tape the wwf thing for me, ok?". For months I beat myself up over the fact that the last words I shared with my father before he died was a request for something. He already had done so much for me. A few hours later my roommate woke me up at 5 in the morning saying that my mother was on the phone. And my life was never the same.
My mother found him laying in bed. She was up late on the computer in the basement sitting exactly where I'm sitting right now; probably doing some christmas shopping. When she finally came to bed, he was already dead. She never said anything, but I think she blames herself somewhat for ot being there for him. She's a RN. If he started to convulse or spasm or showed any outward signs of a heart attack she could've got his pills or at the very least called the police. My brother was also home. He was laying in his bed asleep. I have no idea how he found out, but he was afraid to go to sleep for weeks after that.
When I got home I stayed away from the bedroom, I didnt want to see him. When my uncle (my father's brother-in-law who loved him like a real brother) came to the house, he took me upstairs to the bedroom to see my father before the funeral director took him away. I tried to stay strong as they zipped him up in the bag. But I couldn't. I cried; just like I'm crying now. I ran to my room and cried for the next 6 hours or so. I cried all throughout that week up to and including the funeral.
Although the funeral held a surprise that I cherish to this day. All of my friends found out why I wasnt in class those two weeks and I got phone calls and cards from them. However the one person in my circle of friends I had known for the shortest time was the one who desplayed the kindest gesture. My friend Lauren was dating a guy named Mike for about a month or two at this point. I only first met Mike in October because we all had the same Physics class (and obviously he was dating a friend of mine). Totally unexpected, he showed up to my father's funeral. Mike knew me for a month, if that, and he came to my father's funeral when my best friend since 5th grade didn't. I was so happy to see him that day.
Fast forward to the end of that school year. My mother needs help at home with my brother, also the extra money she's paying for me to live on campus is a drain on her, so I move back home and try my best to readjust to a new role and big brother/son/man of the house, but not father. I'm still trying.
There are so many things I wish my father was still around for, sometimes its stupid stuff, like see ing that the Y2K bug that he was planning for never happened. Or to see the crop of movies based on comic book characheters he introduced me to and the Tolkien novels he tried to get me to read as a child. But mostly its because I need his advice. This may sound stupid considering I'll be turning 24 in less than a month, but I need him to teach me how to make the transition from boy to man. I need him as a model. I need to talk to him about things that are going on in my life and my head and how to deal with them. And sometimes, sometimes i just miss hugging him and laughing with him.
5 years is a long time, but not nearly long enough to heal.

Gerald Quentin Moore
September 25th, 1953-November 30th, 1999