There was a lot of mystery surrounding my father’s death when I was 10, especially when you consider that my only source of information at the time was—and still is—incapable of anything resembling honesty—my mother. I knew he committed suicide, or at least this is what I told. But there was never anything more.

Any attempt to discuss my father’s death with my mother, then as now, invoked tirades of vitriol that still reechoes on perpetual repeat within my mind—“I told your father I was pregnant with you and he said I want a divorce;” “He never wanted anything to do with you;” “Maybe he faked his death and went underground;” Oh, and more.

I was left to fabricate my own reality around his death, especially when you consider that my mother in a very direct way seeded doubt as to whether or not he was really even gone. This created a lifetime of confusion that was only really resolved a couple years ago when my uncle contacted me out of the blue in his old age having learned that he himself did not have much longer to live.

He sent me his death certificate, coroner’s report, and a detective’s very detailed report—he actually interviewed multiple parties, including my mother, and documented his impressions about my father’s state of mind from those interviews, which lead him to believe that he was capable of suicide and there was therefore no need to investigate further.

Thinking about all of this, amongst other things, I realized I wanted to leave some thoughts for my son with regard to my eventual passing. I understand that the human psyche generates a mythos around the passing of a loved one all on its own, but I thought I would guide this a little in relation to my personal cosmology.