In Memoriam

On a family boat trip in the San Juan Islands, 13 years ago on this day, my father, Ross Deane Mathewson, was stung by a single hornet, had a massive anaphylactic reaction, and died. I was 19 at the time, he was 51. What I miss most about my relationship with my father is the relationship we never had: we were never both adults together, because his death marked the end of my childhood. His sudden ceasing to be, in the middle of yet another idyllic, sun-washed summer outing, gave me my first real understanding of the fragility and uncertainty of the world, and my role in doing what I could to help others through it. More than that, though—it allowed me—no, made me see the necessity—to begin the process of learning how to live life—my life—fear and pain and comfort and euphoria and joy altogether—to the fullest. It is in part because of my father that I go after what brings me joy—I can see now, with the hindsight of adult experience, that he let fear keep him from some things that mattered most to him. I recognize many of my struggles, as well as many of my strengths, as his. I wish he could know me now, in this adult life. I wish I could share my struggles and successes with him, and I wish he could share his with me. I miss him.