Everyone says that the one year anniversary of a parent's death is tough. And they're right. More than anything I feel a dull ache; a sad recognition that I'll never be with my father again.

Looking at the picture of him I posted yesterday that I took at the New Greek and Roman Galleries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in September 2007  makes me sad. There is so much of my father in that shot: the  way he looked at art; the fun we had at the museum after those chemo sessions on the Upper East Side; all the good times we had visiting museums and galleries together.

He was a great appreciator  of art and culture; he was ever so fun and funny to be around.

NYC just isn't the same without him. Browsing the New Yorker and the Arts and Leisure section's art and music listings I feel a dull ache. No one to say: Hey look who's in town; look what's at the opera; how's that show at MOMA? 

Even watching TV, I can't run to the phone and say: did you see that on The Jim Lehrer Show? Or How'd you like that performer on American Idol? Yes, he enjoyed American Idol and Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. 

What can I say. My Dad was cool, fun, and great to be around. And now he's not around.

At the cemetery yesterday we sat on the steps of the family masoleum. I read aloud Emily Dickinson's poem Because I Could Not Stop for Death (my dad liked Emily Dickinson).

My sister read the last page and a half of The House at Pooh Corner. And then we all recited the Kaddish together in English. You're supposed to have a minyon (ten people, sometimes men in that Jewish sexist way) but we're not religious anyway.

All of us said said a few words and we had a few moments of silence.

Driving home from the cemetery, past the Unisphere and the old World's Fair grounds I remembered what Hugh had said standing next to a tree on the tiny lawn of the masoleum.

"I have a long list of things I want to talk to Monte about."