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My dad passed away on June fourth of the year two thousand four. He had been ready to go for a long time, but some of us had not been ready to let him. We had been through a lot together maybe more than most father son combos should be allowed. On my 17th birthday, October 25th of 1996, he attempted suicide, and told me it was my fault. I almost killed myself on that day. What stopped me from taking my life and caused me to save his was nothing short of a miraculous display of the powers that be. I somehow pulled open the door of the locked car and pulled his life-less bulk from the front seat. I performed CPR on him for over 30 minutes before he came back. He was a miserable man after that, and I let him blame me for his misery. We didn't talk much about that incident. There even came to be a time when he began to deny that it ever happened. One night near the end of May, five years ago to be precise, we sat down together. He not only for the first time admited to me that he actually did that to me, but he apologized to me. He cried, and asked me to forgive him. He told me that it was the one thing he ever wished he could take back. I looked in his face, and refused to forgive him. That was the last time I ever saw him alive. June fourth is one of the most painful days for me, and probably will be for a long time to come. I wish I could go back in time so I could make things right.
