On Wednesdays, we remember time doesn't matter

(And possibly, we wear pink)

Last week on the bus, a fellow passenger interrupted their especially litigious rant - City Hall you’re sued, Google you’re sued, cops you’re sued, lawyers you’re sued, Portland State you’re sued - by yelling, TIME DOESN’T MATTER!

I wrote that down. And tried to act accordingly.

But now, one day from the anniversary of my dad’s death, it’s all about time. I’ve made it matter.

And last night I realized that this year - 2025 - is a mirror of the one when my dad died, 2019. He died on Thursday, September 11, and tomorrow is that, again.

The meaning maker in me wants to ascribe all sorts of significance to this realization. Something astrological about eclipses and…Saturn…or Mercury. Or something tied to numerology involving a 999 portal.

But I have - at best - a superficial understanding of such things.

The English teacher in me could argue that it’s an invitation to adventure, my own Hero’s Journey. Like in the movie Groundhog Day, one of my favorite ways to show ninth graders what the cycle is. I’m Bill Murray’s Phil Connors, living the same year again until I’ve earned my spiritual reward.

Entertaining all these meanings is its own Groundhog Day.

Here’s what matters: I adored my dad. And for almost six years now I’ve lived without him.

Look at him in this photo: the velour tracksuit, the goofy hat, the goofy smile. Do you understand? Do you see it?

Over 40 years ago and the delight in his eyes is so clear to me, walking into the room with that hat, thrilled that he made my sister and me laugh. So hard. He always made us laugh so hard.

He’s demanded so much of me in his death. Forcing me to see the ways he disappointed me, devastated me, with his choices. His inability to confront his addiction. His unwillingness, despite interventions and ultimatums and pleas. Even his death. Ten years earlier, he saw what was coming. His mother’s Alzheimer’s showed him. And instead, he drank more.

He’s demanded that I grow up my understanding of love. That I embrace complexity and disappointment and still hold him.

I can. I do. I’m learning.

He was my dad. Who made me laugh. Who tried, I know he tried. It just wasn’t enough.

I adored him. I adore him.