Public thoughts about a private man.
Original Post Date: 06.21.2020. Revised: 07.19.2025.
This is the third Father’s Day I won’t be spending with my dad—at least not in this existence. He passed away on August 25, 2017.
My father was an intensely private man. Before he died, he never missed an opportunity to remind us: “Just take me from the church to the cemetery. None of these wakes or calling hours for me, understand?”
He was so concerned we might ignore his wishes, he spoke to the funeral director himself—years in advance. When my brother and I met with him to make final arrangements, he barely let us sit down before saying,“You know your dad didn’t want…”
“Oh yes, we know,” we interrupted. “No calling hours. No poster boards with photos. And no lingering over cold chicken parmigiana in the church hall after the burial. We’ve got it.”
I was deeply tempted to write and deliver a remembrance during his service. But I realized then it would be about me—not about him. So, we left it to the priest, who offered a brief message about how my parents were always together. His proof? He once saw them shopping at Marc's pharmacy. (I still haven’t forgotten, or forgiven, the good Reverend for his lame sermon.)
It occurs to me now, though, that even writing this essay might go against my father’s wishes. So, I’ll leave you with just one thought—and one memory.
The thought: My father was the most honest man I’ve ever known. His integrity was his North Star. He never veered from it. And in the end, it served him—quietly, faithfully, with honor and dignity—every day of his life.
The memory: My dad sent me a card for every holiday of the year. New Year’s. Valentine’s Day. St. Patrick’s Day. Easter. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas. And of course, my birthday. He even sent me Bon Voyage cards before I left on every vacation.
They were always Hallmark cards. And they were always signed in his impeccable handwriting:
Love, Dad and Mumsy
It was the only time he ever wrote the word “love.” And he always placed it right above his name/signature, not my mom’s.
So, two photos today.
The first is of my dad and me, taken shortly before we immigrated to the U.S. While he never quite understood my passion for theatre, take a look at us here. I’m not sure what we’re singing about—but it look like we’re putting on quite a show, doesn’t it?
The second is a snapshot of some of the cards he sent me over the years.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I sure do miss you.
Is there something small — a phrase, a habit, a card — that reminds you of someone you’ve loved and lost?I’d be honored if you shared it here.
“There Will Never Be Another You” — music by Harry Warren, lyrics by Mack Gordon. Published in 1942 by Twentieth Century Music Corp. © 1942.
