My father was born on November 9, 1944, in Washington, D.C. He was the oldest of five siblings. He made a living as a carpenter and locksmith and believed in hard work and continuous hustling.
My father and I did not see eye to eye on many things when I was growing up. I didn’t have that drive to work as he did constantly; he often referred to me as lazy. Over time in my adult life, our conversations were amicable, and we laughed often.
We last communicated on November 9, 2020, his 76th birthday. He died on January 19, 2021, due to stage-four cancer. I never knew about his illness until a few weeks before he died. The events leading up to his death were heinous; I wish I had known about his circumstances; I would have done what I could to help him.
I will always remember him fondly, and I miss him dearly.
Happy Father’s Day.
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