My father was found dead in his Kilgore, Texas, home at 4:34 a.m. on November 24th, 2009. I buried him on November 28th. Daddy’s absence continues to hit me like a ton of bricks and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fully reach closure with it. His death at 55 has only made me question the Meaning of Life—not what it is, but if it even matters—and doubt that I’ll ever find an answer.

Daddy chose to live fast and die young; he drank and smoked in excess and was primarily a meat and potatoes man. In his youth a gifted football player, he relied on sinewy muscles and strong country-boy bones to support his bad habits and rapid aging. Daddy didn’t visit doctors; avoided them, in fact. That his third wife was a nurse helped, but not much. He rarely made health sense, on one hand always singing the praises of farm-fresh quality nutrition and in the other never without liquor, at least during his later years.

He was God to me. I feared Him and loved Him. At times I respected Him. But He was not without His demons. He was so flawed, contributing in part to my early abandonment of Christianity; God wasn’t supposed to be so blemished.

I left my father’s home at fourteen years old—his second wife came between us—and did not speak to him again until months before leaving for college at nineteen. By then I was by no means yet a man, but I was very different from the son to whom he thought he gave life. Those lost five years ultimately came to define our relationship: constantly shaping each other’s reality by our physical absence in each other’s lives.

From twenty to twenty-eight years old, when my father died, I met him in person at most twice a year, usually not even so frequently. College in Houston, a summer job in New York, two semesters of study abroad, and an eventual semi-permanent move to Vietnam after graduation all but took him out of my daily life. We both knew what was happening to us as Us, but neither he nor I knew how to talk about it without arguing to the point of anger.

What would be our last fight happened on August 5th, 2009.

Daddy had spent the previous six months on asking me to come home to America to see him. There was urgency in his voice, more than I had ever heard before. After every single one of our phone calls—in which I often found him under an influence—I would call my sister and ask, “Have you talked to Daddy?” It was really just another way of asking how much more time we thought he had left in him.

I decided to return to the United States for my father. Not friends. Not because I missed America. Not for any other reason than to pay my respects to him before our final goodbye. I knew our last meeting would be our worst, but I didn’t care. I loved Daddy. Always did.

The trip to Kilgore was supposed to last a week. I arrived on August 4th, jet lagged, reverse culture shocked, and confused about my future, and left two days later—completely disheveled, depressed, and angrier than I had ever been at my father.

Our fight had no immediate trigger. I’m not even sure what it was about; something barely related to the moment, I remember. One minute we were laughing; the next, yelling at each other.

My father accused me of thinking I was better than him. Told me that I don’t live in the real world. Admonished me for being flippant towards him. Asked me why I chose Vietnam over America. Commanded an explanation for finding comfort in Buddhism as opposed to Christianity. Demanded that I show him respect. Pleaded that I stop overthinking life and living in my head. Called me a motherfucker and told me to get out of his house.

He told me that he didn’t know who I was anymore and that the next time we would meet would be at his funeral, with him laying in his casket.

I didn’t pick up his calls and deleted his voicemails for three months. Our last phone talk came at the beginning of November. He apologized not only for his outburst but for “everything” and told me that he missed me, that he wanted to go fishing with his son, that he felt wounded I was too busy to be his son. I told him to leave everything in the past, that he and I are good, that I loved him and always had, that he was wrong about a lot but right about a lot more. That I failed him as a son by seeking my own journey as a man.

We simultaneously hated and loved that we were so much alike. He wanted me to fly away, but he didn’t want me to go forever.

At my age he was just like me: independent, reluctant to ask for favors, a lone wolf. We couldn’t bear to look at each other sometimes because of how deeply into our souls we could see. My father and I hated that we had each other’s number, but loved that no one else did or ever would.

My older brother, older sister, and I talk about him like he’s still here. We miss him.

I was as hard on my father as he was on me. That was a mistake. I should have been more forgiving, less of an opinionated jerk about his character. I should have called him sooner; I should not have ever believed he was God. I should have taken him for who he was, flaws and all. I should not have thought I was a better man than he was. I should have been more patient with him. I should have looked at him more. I miss him.