It was inevitable. And it was dreaded. I had arrived late to a friend’s birthday party being held at a roller rink. Yes, it was the 1980s and roller skating birthday parties were “in.” As much as a roller skating party can ever be considered “in.” Because I was late, my friend’s father had to drive me some ten or fifteen minutes from their house to the roller rink.

That meant there was ample time for stilted conversation, including the inevitable question – what does your father do? It was not the first, nor the last time the question would be posed. Nevertheless, it was always uncomfortable for me. Do I want to answer the question honestly? If I do, what words do I employ that will not result in the look of pity or the standard “I am so sorry” response?

As a kid, I wanted to avoid making others uncomfortable as much as I wanted to avoid that feeling of being “not normal.” We were no longer a nuclear family, unless nuclear was a reference to the Irish temper that my brother and I share. My response was more a product of instinct than thoughtful consideration.

“He’s retired,” I said bluntly. My thinking was that it really was not a lie because he was retired. Permanently. It made sense in my morbidly Irish brain. But it also opened the door to the equally dreaded follow-up question. “So, what does he do now that he’s retired?”

Had not planned on that, so I replied that he golfed. Golfed a lot. That made sense because my dad often wore a yellow golf sweater on the weekends. Did he golf a lot? I can’t remember if he did or he didn’t. And I have no clue – nor did I then –  whether my friend’s father knew my dad was dead. I do know my mom never got a call asking, “Does Jennifer know her dad is not alive?”

As I have gotten older, the question is not any less uncomfortable. But I am more comfortable in answering it and answering it bluntly. I am not fond of euphemisms and even less fond of the phrase “passed on” or “passed away.” To me, it sounds like a way one would describe sour milk. I appreciate the simplicity of “he died.”

It is not flowery or poetic. But death at its very core is simple. It is a simple and brief moment in time. And I am not sure I ever want to be comfortable with the fact his moment in time came before I got to know him.