Paul O. Henry III

I'm about a week late in posting this entry, but I needed the time to hone in on the proper words. January 15, 2008, was my father's 60th birthday. There was not party in his honor, there was not a cake full of candles, there was not a card containing an old-age jab of questionable appropriateness, and there is a clear reason why. Twelve years ago this January my father passed away. He expired in his sleep unexpectedly, without significant pain or suffering.

My father was a good man. His life was not without disappointments and mistakes. I'm sure he wanted to accomplish and experience more, but as I grow older and gain perspective I realize that he always put his children first, and I've begun to appreciate that more and more. He was very outgoing, a real people-person, something that I - who was awfully awkward up until about, oh I don't know, let's say five minutes ago - try my best to emulate. My father, perhaps at the expense of his own professional pursuits, always found time to toss a football or baseball around in the backyard, bike up to the local park for a game of 21, or play a game of Monopoly with my sister and I - by the way, it's worth mentioning that my mother was pretty good about these things too, and that I don't give her enough credit for that. The result of all this: I'm pretty well addicted to anything and everything ESPN.

So why write this entry? Well, I've read more than a handful of applications during the past weeks and months, of applicants who have lost parents during the most pivotal years of their maturation from adolescent youth to promising young adult. I was a freshman in high school when my father passed, and each such application I read, especially that of a son who has lost his father or a daughter who has lost her mother, sends a chilling stroke down my spine. Yet, each touches my heart, leaving an impression on me that I will soon not forget.

While I no longer feel, I do still recall the pain and seemingly insurmountable sadness. I admire those of you who have experienced these emotions and have continued to achieve and excel academically and personally. You're deserving of accolades far surpassing my facility with the English language. No doubt by now many consolers have told you that time will heal your wounds, that the pain will subside. It will, and it will. Knowing that my father was not in attendance to witness my graduation from college, something he did not have the opportunity to do, no longer hurts. Knowing that it will be I and not my father who walks my sister, younger by five years, down the aisle on her wedding day truthfully no longer hurts. But these thoughts are still sad. It's a curious occurrence, but while my emotional wounds have healed and I no longer grieve the loss of my father, I miss my Dad so much more now than I did two, five, eleven years ago. I'll miss him more tomorrow than I did today, and I could not be happier about that.

I hold my memories of my father and these reflections on the experience very close. I rarely share them because of how important they are to me. That's why I'm happy I miss my Dad. Missing him helps me remember him, and I know I won't forget him. Inspired by the courage so many of you have displayed in sharing your stories with my colleagues and I, both at William & Mary and countless other colleges and universities, I decided to share this very personal part of myself. Thank you, and I promise I will not forget any of you.

No, I did not have the opportunity to see my father on his 60th birthday. But that did not prevent me from keeping him in my thoughts, appreciating the precious moments he and I shared, and hoping I continue to make him proud. I love my father very much, and even though I can no longer tell him, it's about time I said so.