November 14, 1958 - September 16, 2007
Ten days ago, the most important teacher I had in high school died in a diving accident.
I wrote "most important"; I could have written "favourite" or "best" or any number of words that would all fail to convey how important it was that Michael Ford was my teacher for two classes.
Today I went to his funeral visitation. I'm not familiar with the way those things go in a family that isn't Ukrainian. I walked in and saw people politely talking in groups. I didn't recognize anyone. I wasn't there to catch up with a run-in from high school. I signed the visitation book. I moved to the casket.
As I drove away I thought of the last terrifying moments in Mr. Ford's life, I thought of how his two young boys will be changed by his absence, and how I'm often not appreciative of the luck I've had in life. That's what death does: it makes us remember a person and be thankful of what he added to life.
Since I've heard of his death, I've repeatedly replayed an important memory I have of Mr. Ford. I won't write it here because I can't forget it. And besides my words would fail me trying to recall that day and that man.