I Promise Not to Die at 62

If my father were alive today he would be celebrating his 107th birthday. But he died when he was 62.

I actually just discovered this — or, I guess, re-discovered this — several days ago when for some reason that has already receded in memory I was going back through my electronic records to track down his death certificate.

Wait, yeah, I remember it now. My brother-in-law celebrated his birthday several days ago, and I decided to call and wish him a happy birthday rather than just send him the obligatory one-sentence email or text. Something about this Coronavirus makes me want to reach out more, and I’m betting I’m not the only one.

Anyway, I call him up and get his voice mail. Feeling a bit disappointed, I left a message, hoping more than usual that he might call back. Several minutes later he did, and we had a good conversation. About halfway through that conversation is when it occurred to me that my brother-in-law’s birthday was only a few days apart from my father’s birthday on April 28th. Then I started to tell him about how I was feeling a little strange about my late father’s birthday this year because he died at the age of 62 in August of 1975. I was 17 at the time, and an only child. The effect of losing my father at that age is something I don’t think I completely understood for at least several decades.