My dad was a loving father and devoted husband. He had his flaws and his angers like many men, but he adored his "family." Pop Carter, as we'd grown to affectionately call him, was one-of-a-kind. He loved to sing and play the keyboard/piano. It was the little things that mattered to him. He expressed interest in everything we did, goals we wanted to achieve, desires we wanted to fulfill. Pop Carter was the melody to all of our songs. When it came to comics, it was a younger dad who would introduce the world of superheroes and super-villains; multi-verses and far-flung worlds to a doe-eyed brown boy who believed in the power of magic. I remember Pop Carter taking me to my first comic convention. We bought a stack of old Sgt. Fury & the Howling Commandos. It was Fury and Namor the Submariner that dad enjoyed the most in addition to Fantastic Four. However, it was his big brother, my Uncle George, who was the real the comic-booky. With disregard to resale value and before getting books CGC'd was a thing, he'd roll them up and stick them in his back pocket. Anything from Spider-Man to Power Man & Iron Fist, Unk read them. So too did my dad. Hand-me-down comics they were. Oftentimes, I wish I'd been able to get my hands on some of those tattered gems. Alas, Uncle George had passed away long before my dad ever knew he'd receive what many consider a death sentence.
My wife and I were able to safely arrive to Detroit that late Sunday afternoon in enough time to spend time with dad. There he laid in a bed in the room my sister spent all of her childhood. My grandmother spent nights in that room during summer visits. So too did my granddad; my mom's father. With family and friends gathered around both somberness and laughter; tears and peace we watched him breathe his last. Unlike the Return of Barry Allen, there was no coming back from this. This was the moment. The moment no one ever wish upon themselves. The moment a loved one dies right before your eyes.
I admit. As stoic as my feelings may have seemed at that moment, I was in shock. I couldn't believe dad was gone. Just like that. Gone. My wife was tearful. My mom was very brave in her own way, saddened yet hopeful. My sister took it the hardest. As I write this, I cannot even say whether my niece, who was six at the time, was there at all; but I believe she was with my brother-in-law. The room was a cauldron of emotions. Faith, hope and love were the three that remained.
Though my dad was not Barry Allen, he shared a relationship with Lazarus' friend. I believe that since my dad's hope was built upon the true Rock of Eternity, Jesus of Nazareth (the Christ and Son of God), then his life was preserved beyond white shores toward a far green country under a swift sunrise (Tolkien, 1955). I became a doe-eyed brown boy once again in the face of that truth. Hope does not disappoint. That's what some of the best comic book stories remind us of. There still remains hope in a world so broken by violence and suffering. Many of those narratives are redemption songs containing melodies not unlike those my dad used to sing. Of saints and saviors, gods and monsters, the hero's journey is a compelling one. To that end, we rejoice and celebrate the lives of our loved ones. The lives of our heroes.
That's what Wednesday Comix is all about: The misadventures of life and faith; love and hope; and a whole lot of comics. Stay tuned! @WednesdayComix & @LetsTalkMOTU
