A letter to Dad on losing close friend

By Michael C. DeMattos

All too often, we think of family as those who live under one roof or those to whom we are related by blood.

In most cases, this probably is true, but there are times when the term "family" extends far beyond this simple and somewhat static definition. Growing up in Wai'anae, I had many "uncles," "aunties" and "cousins," who I would discover later in life were not in fact related to me — not by blood, anyway.

Recently, our family (and especially my dad) lost a friend who was also our neighbor for more than 40 years. It was a sad time for all of us. We lost one of our own. What follows is a letter I sent to my dad with the hope of providing some comfort.

Dear Dad:

I just want you to know how sorry I am to hear about Mr. Burke's passing. I know that you lost more than a friend; you lost your best friend. Please know that he was dear to me too. While my life has not been without loss, I must admit that death remains a mystery. I suspect however, that death is both about those who have passed and those who live on.

I spent a few moments this morning thinking of all the ways that I was touched by Mr. Burke.

He called my wife "the stevedore" for the way she hauled my daughter — and all her belongings — in and out of the car each time we drove out to visit.

He marveled at our pitiable jockeying on the cribbage board and turned his nose up at our trash talk. He always seemed above that.

Remember that big scar on his right shoulder? He used to tell me it was an elephant bite. I never believed him. I was sure it was the result of a violent shark attack!

He gave me his old cigar boxes, and I filled them with my childhood treasures. Even now, as I open the cardboard box of my memory, I am overwhelmed by the sweet-musty smell.

He always asked how things were going. And I always had a pat response like "It'll be better after a cold beer!"He never argued and quite frequently would withdraw home to retrieve a Guinness he had stashed in the fridge for me. He was a true Irish gentleman.

The memories go on and on, and I am forced to recognize how blessed I have been, not because he died but because he lived. Still it hurts. Maybe the pain is not supposed to go away. Maybe the pain we feel is evidence of how he touched our lives. If this is so, then he was truly remarkable. I can see him now, no pretension, sitting on the lanai in his double-pocket shirt, khaki pants, floppy socks and dirty sneakers, laughing aloud for all to hear. I hope that we can all enjoy a laugh soon in his memory. Until then, I will hoist a Guinness in his honor and perhaps time — or the cold beer — will ease the pain

I love you, Dad,

Mike