Footsteps

My dad is the hardest working man I know. For two thirds of my life, his work was what defined him. He would work 14 hours a day, write a schedule at the kitchen table, sleep 5 hours, and head back to the restaurant. I witnessed him in awe, exhibiting reverence and developing a sense of hero worship. He was my definition of manhood. He was Superman.

Then ... Dad broke. His body finally crashed, long before his will or his mind showed even the faintest of cracks. His physicality destroyed, he struggled in pain for a few more years before he finally had to accept his fate. He had to abandon that which consumed so many of his waking hours.

That's when I learned who my dad was.

Dad was sad, to say the least. Crestfallen, struck down, might be better. Trapped in a neck brace, probably wrapping his head around the stark and unforgiving paradigm shift that had become his life. He was condemned to 60% mobility above the neck, nearly 100% immobility beyond the couch. Beginning high school, I was embroiled in a myriad of inconsequential teenage concerns that left me wholly insensitive to his thoughts. I saw him in passing. I regret this.

Then Dad did a miraculous thing. He became, instead of 100% confined to the couch, 100% Dad. No longer beholden to his bosses, his budgets, his restaurant, his work, he grew into something more. A man who probably would have had to work appeared at my marching band competitions. A man who probably grit his teeth at my own practicing appeared at my jazz band shows. Hell, he was home every day when school ended, no matter what.

I didn't realize the portent of this until it happened. Quite simply ... Dad came home.

I don't pretend to know how it was for him, or Mom. We don't necessarily talk like that as a family. In the Irish tradition, silent actions scream where words are not spoken. But I know who I saw, and how often I saw him, and the change was a good one. A great one.

So here I am at almost 25, and an opportunity sits in front of me. An opportunity for possible greatness, and it's my favorite kind. It's difficult, unrelenting, punishing, and most would turn it down in a heartbeat. It will drive me to my edge and demand more of me than anything I've done before. It will require of me that which anyone would be wont to give. It will require sacrifice.

Like Dad's restaurant.

A part of me wants to take this opportunity, specifically for these reasons. To build that which others would not- bear the burden as an indefatigable Atlas. To strive and cry and whine and be a martyr for having made the choice I wanted to.

And I'm happy to say ... I probably won't take it. Dad's example got me to this point. Dad showed me what work ethic was all about. Dad showed me that to stand out, you had to be exceptional. That, perhaps lacking great talent, one must place unmitigated determination in its place.

Then, a few years ago, Dad showed me what it really was to be great.

There will be more opportunities. I work hard, I strive for excellence, and fortune has been kind to me. But this time, I have a chance to be something more than a good worker. I can be a good son, a good grandson, a good brother.

I have the chance to come home.

I wonder- what would I miss more, 50 years from now, on my deathbed? The endless hours sitting in a boiler that I could choose ... or the dozen more talks with Poppop? The extra visits home? The trips to the city to see my brother and uncle?

Good thing someone showed me the answer already.