Detroit, May 10, 1987

Detroit, May 10, 1987 By Paul Rischard My longest memories of him are of attitude rather than action. Generous and yet demanding, his internal strength found its destiny in business, which he approached with a smooth firmness and loyal, dutiful intensity to earn great respect from his colleagues. Yet now he is dying. His colleagues do not visit as they cannot bear to see in him their own mortal future. Their relationship with him was intellectual and now only the crumbs are left where once there was a lavish banquet. I am his son. I sense his spirit now unencumbered by the distractions of the heavy chores of executive, husband and father. We sit together in the backyard. These moments together watching a robin sing out as it leaps nervously from branch to branch are profoundly relaxing for dad and me. My father makes no eye contact as if to save the embarrassment of communication without words. A simple gesture, a bit of a smile, that is all that is needed. We go inside the house, a bond between us renewed. He sits next to me as we together embrace the spring warmth of the land where I grew into adulthood. There is not much time left; I observe as I glimpse his feeble frame, a bleak vestige of what I knew as a child. We sit quietly as the stroke cruelly left him unable to express himself. There is emphasis in our culture on contribution. A quiet person is viewed alternatively as shy and shallow or meditative and deep. An old man who has suffered a stroke is less of a contributor and can be seen by those accustomed to evaluation by superficiality as superfluous to society. But this is my dad! ***** Dad passed two days after his birthday in early July of 1989. In his last years, sitting quietly beside me, he introduced me to the garden of knowledge and wisdom whose pathways are endless.