Two days ago, my father passed away.  He had fought a courageous battle against Stage 4 cancer for three and a half years.  He had been more or less winning that battle until this winter, when he started to lose his appetite and his weight just kept dropping until there wasn't much left.  However, he also got to meet his grandson.  He never lost his sense of humor, even when his days were mostly exhaustion and pain.  He never lost sight of the kind of man he was.

He used to tell me funny stories in the morning to get me up for school.  I would fake sleep, but if he got me to crack a smile or laugh I couldn't pretend anymore.  He told me tales about giant jungle slugs that lived in the woods next to our house.  They were the size of couches, he told me.  They came from "France" (code for Outer Space, because of course, these were ALIEN slugs).  They were frightened of the color yellow.  Needless to say, he got me laughing every time.

He drank coffee black and constantly.  He liked Cheerios.  He ate bread sandwiches.  Yes, that's just pieces of bread with more bread between them.  Whenever we went out to a restaurant, he'd sneak bits of his food onto my plate because he wanted to share what he ordered.  He was the one to bring ice cream and chocolate into the house.  He burnt my hotdogs for me because he knew I liked them that way.  He made the worst tuna casserole ever once, and never made dinner again.  He liked to put strawberry jam on mac & cheese, and to this day that's how I like it too.

He played guitar and bass.  He sang and wrote songs and poetry.  He loved tight harmonies and bluesy sounds.  I remember him singing "Blackbird" to me.  He had a lovely voice, very gentle and soulful.  He jumped at every opportunity to encourage me artistically, to the point where he would buy me a dozen harmonicas if I seemed to like playing one once.  He bought me keyboards, electric pianos, a guitar... brought me albums of Wilson Phillips, Jewel, and the Beatles.  He showed me his poetry and explained how meter and rhymes work.

He was many things.  Affectionate.  Intelligent.  Spontaneous.  Goofy.  Hard-working.  A fixer of computers, cars, and guitars.   A giver of praise, encouragement, and hugs.  He taught me math, baseball, and artistic expression.  He was so many wonderful things.  I am sad that my son will grow up without a memory of his Grandpa Alan.  I will do my best to keep his memory alive, but the truth is that my dad leaves this world with a rather large space to fill.  

I have this beautiful picture of my dad and my son.  We took it at the hospital, not even a week before he passed away.  It shows Dad in his hospital bed with the oxygen tube on holding three-month-old Niah who is wearing a onesie that says "Grandpa's Little Slugger."  My dad was a huge baseball fan.  On my dad's nose is a big foam clown nose- the only Halloween costume I ever saw him wear throughout my childhood, the same costume he wore the night he met my mother.  He's smiling at the camera with this twinkle in his eyes.  Even though he's lost so much weight, even though his hair went gray practically overnight when he was diagnosed, even though he's bed-ridden in a hospital when he was barely sick a day in his life before the cancer... he's my Dad.