The complications of the relationship of a father and his son often defy explanation. The changing elements progress through a series of stages.

First, there is one of total dependence. The father sits as the ultimate authority both cherished and feared, at least for those of us raised in the baby boomer years. There was a clear delineation of responsibilities between the mother and father. Whether this was better or worse is a matter of perspective.

Nothing is perfect and there were clear benefits and detriments to such situations.

As the son grows, there comes the natural if trying rise of independence. Small things at first, ignored requests, unfinished tasks, or lapses of proper decorum. A small but rising resistance to parental control.

The nature of this resistance clashes with the learning experiences and benefits of having a father in one’s life.

And during the course of progressing from infant to child to teenager to adult, we begin to see the cracks in the once perceived omnipotence and idolized image of the man holding the position.

And so it was with my father and I. My memories are a bit different than some of my siblings. I was nineteen when my parents divorced. I had made it through those critical years without having to learn the meaning of infidelity and its effect on a family.

I recall a card sent by one of my aunts, my father’s sister Katherine, to my mother on her birthday and after the divorce. Inside the card was signed, in bold underlined script, “YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW.” It spoke volumes of how close those families were, and remained, despite the strain.

At first, it seemed I just ignored it. Trying not to pick sides. Trying to hold onto the happy memories and ignore reality but inevitably there came a time where my father and I clashed with angry words. It created a chasm between us that never quite healed.

Over time, we came to a place of détente more than resolution. And many years went by with only the slightest of contact.

And then he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I’d like to say it sparked a reconciliation but it didn’t. I spoke to him for the last time the day before he died. And while the conversation was warm and friendly, it couldn’t undo the years.

Despite it all, I think we both knew we loved each other. He was my father and I was his son.