Papa used to tell me that I was the only person he knew who was so excited to turn 60. “I can’t wait for all the discounts and benefits I’m going to get,” I’d tell him.
“I’d gladly return all the discounts and benefits I’ve received if I could turn back the clock,” he’d tell me. My father wasn’t kidding. He’d received plenty. He lived to be 99.
“If you could turn back the clock, at which age would you want to go back to?” I asked. “Thirty,” he told me resolutely.
My father loved life. And he lived it well. He never complained. Not about the weather, the traffic or the food on the table. He didn’t seem to feel any kind of discomfort or inconvenience.
Maybe, it was because he had lived through the war. He had lived through so much more pain, agony, discomfort and difficulty that everything else post-war was just a bump on the road he knew he could eventually hurdle.
Papa celebrated each day of his life. And he did this not by spending all his money like there was no tomorrow. He celebrated each day of his life by giving his best. He worked every day of his life and for as long as he could.
He even wanted to be returned to the company payroll in his 90s which we found rather funny.
For as long as I can remember, each day of Papa’s life was lived with purpose. And each day of his life was productive. He showed me that there were no small tasks to do and no small roles to play in life. He was happy with whatever he accomplished.
Till his last breath, Papa inspired me to live like him — to live with purpose and productivity, to always be curious, to never lose one’s sense of childlike wonder, to be strong and brave in the face of difficulty, to believe that limits exist only in your mind.
I will miss him today when I return from the race. He would be at the breakfast table — reading the paper when I’d excitedly walk in and show him my medal.
He never stopped me from doing anything. I guess because he knew he couldn’t stop me, anyway. I was too much like him. He took my mad decision to take up running in my 50s in stride. It didn’t surprise him. But you know what I loved best and will never forget? He never said I couldn’t do it.
“Whose birthday is coming up next?” Papa asked me some two weeks before he passed. His question took me aback. “Mine,” I replied in a small voice.
It was odd that Papa would ask because he never cared much about birthdays. And so, in that moment, my heart sank. I knew what was coming.
I had looked to my birthday with such anticipation that even Papa honored my feverish excitement with silence as he foresaw that while this day would bring me great happiness, my joy would be tempered with grief.
Thank you, Lord, for the gift of life. Mine and Papa’s. I’ve turned 60. Papa lived an incredible life. And while today, I am immensely grateful — I grieve. My tears fall. Still.