The Last Time I Saw My Father: A Missed Opportunity on His 70th Birthday
- Eric Kerr
- Mar 21
- 4 min read
Updated: May 18
Originally published on Medium, October 16, 2023
Reflecting on Loss and Memories
On this day, which marks my father’s 70th birthday, I find myself staring into the chasm of loss. I seek a little peace amidst the haunting silence that his absence has created.
This narrative digs deep into the tender and turbulent threads of memory that connect me to my father. His absence has left a void that has stretched over three decades.
As I revisit the sparse yet significant encounters we had, I navigate through various emotions—regret, anger, and longing—woven together by a fragile yet enduring bond of connection.
The memories may be faint, their edges softened by time, yet the feelings they awaken are strikingly vivid. I may struggle to recall what was said or the sound of his voice, yet the emotions resonate deeply, shaping who I am today.
This piece serves more as an exploration than a straightforward recollection of the unsaid.
As you journey through my words, the layers of my personal history will peel back. You'll encounter the conflicting human emotions forever tethered to the ghosts of what could have been.
Sunday, October 15, 2023
Today would have been my Dad’s 70th birthday.
His absence from my life leaves room for countless scenarios to play out, wondering what we would be doing on this day to celebrate his milestone birthday.
I fill the void with images, work through logistics, and ruminate on the details of an imaginary celebration—anything to keep busy and not sit in the feeling of the loss.
I've revisited the memory hundreds of times over the years since my mother, distraught and tearful, walked into my room with the news. I was fourteen.
I didn’t grow up with my father. He and my mother separated when I was just an infant. The intricacies of that time remain unclear to me.
I've adjusted the story over the years. As I get older, I see it differently. But in my attempts at making the stories more interesting, one truth remains—I grew up without a father.
I must have been six or seven years old, living in North Carolina with my maternal grandmother, when he visited for my birthday.
A singular photo is all I have to jog my memory of the day.
The next time I saw him was a couple of months before my fifteenth birthday. He stayed at my grandmother's for a brief two day visit.
During that stay, he fixed a plumbing issue in the upstairs bathroom.
I have no idea how the visit was arranged, who suggested it, and why then?
Did he really drive all the way from Texas to North Carolina just to deal with a leaky pipe? He patched everything back up, leaving clear evidence of his work.
Every time I revisit that bathroom in my mind, I come to grips with the fact that it was my bathroom, just across from my room.
While he was working mere feet away, I occupied myself, oblivious to what was happening. I didn’t seize the opportunity to connect with him.
When he took me to Taco Bell for lunch, he wore cutoff jean shorts, a tank top, and rocked what could only be described as a stunning mullet. I was too embarrassed to eat inside, so I suggested the drive-thru.
He understood. "Thanks, darling," he said, while she handed him our oversized bag filled with my favorite—three hardshell tacos and a Mexican pizza.
As I look back now, I cannot recall the exact words he said that day, but I remember feeling embarrassed. I have no memory of him indicating we were family.
The word "son" never seemed to leave his lips. I can’t even remember his voice.
The memory of our last car ride together—the last moments we shared—is where the narrative of my dad concludes for me.
Regrets of a Missed Connection
I can’t recall any significant exchanges after that lunch. Most of it is lost in my mind, trapped in the memories of a fourteen-year-old boy embarrassed to share a meal in public with his father.
I regret that day.
I regret every unspoken word. I regret not maximizing our fleeting time together.
I feel animosity towards him for not trying harder to reach me, and I hate him for dying in a car crash just two months later. He was only 41.
It pains me to reflect on how simple it was for both of us to let such moments slip away, completely unaware that we wouldn't get another chance.
I've needed my father over the past thirty years.
His absence has morphed over the years. The void has grown deeper and wider. Each missed opportunity leaves me yearning to understand the man who helped create me. This absence continues to swell whenever I wish I could call him for advice or wisdom.
I feel that depth—it is an emptiness that will never be filled.
Though it is a tragic loss I grieve daily, today, on his 70th birthday, I feel more connected to him than ever while writing these words.
An Apology
Well, damn. I guess we both missed our chance, didn’t we? I'm sorry for that.
I've mourned the silence between us for a long time. Now I realize that there is beauty in the quiet space between two people.
Within each of us was a tidal wave of feelings held back for fear of being too much. In that way, we’re more alike than I ever realized, and I feel closer to you now than I did back then.
I'm 43 now, older than you were when you passed. Have I surpassed you in experiences, knowledge, or wisdom?
Am I wrong in thinking you could have taught me more than I learned alone?
Who would I have been if you'd lived on? Who would you be today—shaped by time and a changing world? Would there still be silence between us?
I often wish I knew.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Your Son,
Eric
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