I was 15 years old when my father died. That was 56 years ago.

He was 47. He was a brilliant man and a drinker. There were only a few things my father loved. He loved his family, Architecture, the art of Salvador Dali, and whiskey. My father was never violent. He never showed the slightest hint of anger. Although, he could be stern sometimes.

I remember the day he died more vividly than anything else in my life. I don't remember most of my birthdays.The memory of my honeymoon is starting to fade, and I don't remember what my college campus looked like. I remember that day though.

We were living in Dallas. It was summer. One of the driest we'd had in years. Everything was a washed out, golden yellow. The dead grass. The sun beating down on me as I rode my bike through our neighborhood. I had gone to see if my friend James was at home. We were supposed to go swimming. There was an ambulance in my driveway when I returned. I didn't understand. Why would there be an ambulance at my house? Why was a crowd of people starting to gather? Why were policemen keeping people away from our home?

I rushed past the policemen and through the front door of our home. My mother and sister were huddled together and sobbing. I still hadn't figured out what was going on. I didn't, until I saw him. Rigid on the floor. My mind went blank, and then everything started to happen at once. The medics lifting him onto a gurney. The policeman explaining to my mother, my sister, and I what had happened.

My father had been shot. A burglar had broken into our house. Upon seeing my father, he shot him.

It was such a simple death. A death my father did not deserve. Such a complex man felled in such a trivial manner.

I harbored such a horrible anger and bitterness for so long. My father did not deserve that. My family did not deserve that. It completely devastated my sister. She was only 10 when it happened. A cheerful, carefree girl became completely closed off. We couldn't get her to talk for 6 months.

I wanted to be an architect like him. I thought he would like that. I thought that would have made him proud of me. Unfortunately, I did not inherit his ability for architecture. I did, however, inherit his love of whiskey. I started drinking that night.

I found one of his bottles of whiskey and began my alcoholism. The searing of my throat let me know I was still alive and the events that transpired during the day were real. I cherished the taste and the pain. I drank myself into a stupor that night. My vision blurred and my strides became stumbles. The world swirled around me as I fell into the darkness of intoxication.

So today I am in a hospital bed and my liver is failing. I don't have much to show for all my years on this earth. I did find the man who shot my father. It was about 20 years ago. I had spent my entire life looking for him. He was an old man, frail and dying in his home in Reno. I knocked on his door and after a couple of minutes passed he opened the it. After spending my entire life looking for this man, I didn't know what to say to him. He looked at me with this blank stare and asked me who I was. I told him I was the son of a man he shot about 30 years ago. And I shot him. I left him there on his porch and walked away.

The rest of my life is a blur now. Only those two memories remain. I suppose that's how it should be.