The darkness of death covered the sun, and refused to let it shine. The earth became paralyzed with grief. A bitter cold wind blew through the January evening.
“Your Father is dead!”
John Joseph Byron III 52, passed from this life on January 31, 1995, at 5:30 pm. He was the beloved husband of the late Theresa C. (Bergeron) Byron. John was the cherished Father of SherryAnn Byron. Born on February 2, 1941, in Milford Massachusetts. John was the precious son of the late John Joseph Byron II and Eleanor (Newton) Byron.
Dad, you were the spice of my life. You seasoned me when I was bitter. Adjusted the sugar when needed, and reared me in the way I should go. You did an awesome job teaching me about life. Your instrumentation gave me the specific instrument I needed to survive life. I thank you because without them I would be a professional dimwit.
Today, I watch the string unravel from the ball of life, and I remember the lessons you instructed me in. Those lessons led to my maturity.
The memories of you have become the fingerprints of gold upon my heart. The thought that I must live the rest of my life without you panics every fiber of my being. I cling to the memories of you, like a warm blanket.
You were a man who loved peace and quiet, I made this one of my goals in life. You raised me to mind my own business, so I will not be minding anyone else’s, a golden leaf I practice.
Your sense of humor is hereditary, a gift I appreciate in hard times. I can sometimes hear your laughter in my soul. I will never forget how you gave everything a nickname. You would then establish a healthy but humorous character in it. I recall your humorous emergencies.
“Hurry up I have an emergency!”
I would come running as fast as I could panicked.
“What’s wrong Dad!”
“Hurry up pull my finger!”
After I pulled your finger, you’d make a loud fussy fart. We’d laugh together, and run for the potpourri spray. The apartment would be still and silent, and you would holler out my nickname. When I came, you’d say.
“What!”
We would be in the kitchen listening to Hank Williams, and you would be cooking one of your delicious Irish dishes. You would sing into the spatula, a kitchen concert.
You adored the Toronto Blue Jays, New York Yankees, and NASCAR. In your younger years you would enjoy the races at Seekonk Speedway, and camp and fish.
Your scent of Old Spice aftershave and the memory attached caresses my broken heart. I remember when you guided me in how to ride my first bike. I trusted you more than the bike. I recall the powerful connection of trusting that you wouldn’t let me fall. Later, you’d instruct me to drive, and you would know a Father’s limit when I almost hit a telephone pole.
“Driving School!”
Dad, I remember when you would sit at the kitchen table enjoying a hot cup of ‘Maxwell House’ coffee with an ‘hang’ sandwich. The sun would peek through the apple printed curtains and say.
“Hello John!”
I listened intently as you told me about all the dreams you wished would come through. Ten acres of land with peace and quiet bursting out the windows and doors of a log cabin home. The ownership of a 1962 Cadillac Coupe de Ville, a car that you could take on country bumpkin rides; and go wherever the road took you. Return to living off the land hunting, fishing, growing your own vegetables, and field dressing what you hunted. You wanted to own your own diner where you were the head chef. Where you would make all your awesome Irish dishes. You wanted to have the ability to race stock cars again. Attend a Toronto Blue Jays game, New York Yankees game, and eat all the New York wieners that your stomach would allow. You would conclude your dreams with.
“Well, they are all pipe dreams and never will happen.”
Dad, I wanted to give you everyone of your dreams, and make them all come true, I couldn’t. What I did was create a fictional character in my second novel. I placed each one of your dreams in the characters life. He carries your dreams, as his own. Your legacy lives on through his life. All those dreams were not pipe dreams, because I removed them from the pipe, and let them live on….
I am old now, and my whole life I have wanted to give you the obituary that you never had. Every January 1st I find a tree in one of the places you love. I will then place a memorial there for you. On February 2nd, your Birthday, I make a special Irish dish. When the fork touches my mouth, I savor the taste that you would have enjoyed. This obituary is my treasure of acknowledgment, a fingerprint in your legacy.
Dad, I give you my heartbeat so with each beat you will live on….
I will forever miss you and forever love you. There will never be a day where your heart stops beating because you will always have mine.
Love Forever
Your Daughter
SherryAnn Byron
I invite others to have a hot cup of ‘Maxwell House’ coffee in honor of my beloved Dad.