The Death of a Father

The day my father died, I was 12 years old. I remember it was a Saturday, and I was playing in the backyard with my friends. My father was inside, watching a football game on TV.

Suddenly, I heard my mother scream. I ran inside, and I saw my father lying on the floor. He had had a heart attack.

I didn't know what to do. I just stood there, frozen in shock. My mother called 911, but it was too late. My father was gone.

The next few days were a blur. I went to the funeral, and I tried to be strong for my mother and my sister. But inside, I was falling apart.

I couldn't believe my father was gone. He was my best friend. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike, how to throw a baseball, and how to tie my shoes. He was the one who always made me laugh.

I didn't know how I was going to live without him.

The weeks and months that followed were tough. I cried a lot. I felt angry and confused. I didn't understand why my father had to die.

But slowly, I started to heal. I started to remember the good times we had together. I started to smile again.

I realized that my father would always be with me in my heart. He would always be my hero.

One day, I was cleaning out my father's closet when I found a box of old baseball cards. I started to look through them, and I came across a card of my father's favorite player, Roberto Clemente.

I remembered how my father used to tell me stories about Clemente. He told me how Clemente was a great ballplayer, but he was also a great person. He told me how Clemente always put others before himself, and how he always helped those in need.

I looked at the card for a long time. I thought about all the things my father had told me about Clemente. And I realized that my father was a lot like Clemente.

My father was always putting others before himself. He was always helping those in need. And he was always a great person.

I smiled. I knew that my father would always be with me in my heart. He would always be my hero.

I put the baseball card back in the box and closed it. I knew that I would never forget my father. He would always be a part of me.

The years passed, and I grew up. I went to college, got married, and had children of my own.

But I never forgot my father. I always remembered the good times we had together. I always remembered the lessons he taught me. And I always remembered how much he loved me.

On Father's Day, I would often think about my father. I would remember the things he did for me, and I would be grateful for all the love and support he gave me.

I knew that my father was watching over me from heaven. And I knew that he was proud of the man I had become.

One Father's Day, I was sitting in my living room with my children. We were talking about our fathers, and I told my children stories about my father.

As I was talking, I started to cry. I realized that I still missed my father very much. But I also realized that I was grateful for the time we had together.

I told my children that I would always love their grandfather, and that he would always be a part of our family.

My children hugged me, and we all cried together.

It was a difficult day, but it was also a day of healing. I realized that even though my father was gone, he would always be with me in my heart.

I am 35 years old now, and I have a family of my own. But I still think about my father every day. I still miss him very much. But I am grateful for the time we had together. And I know that he would be proud of the man I have become.