Before the internet, iPhones, and the cloud—back when floppy disks were king and computer screens glowed green like alien eyes—my father and I shared one of the few things that truly bonded us: computers.
He worked for IBM. A titan in a white shirt and tie, the kind of guy who could walk into a room full of engineers and make them feel like undergrads again. He wasn’t just a programmer; he was the sort of mind that taught calculus to the pioneers of programming. Not many people know this about him, but he’d take business trips to help early computer architects understand the math behind their own creations. He wasn’t loud or flashy—he was just quietly brilliant.
I talked him into buying a family computer—an IBM PC for him, and a PCjr for me. What started as “something fun for the house” became our version of Little League. He’d tinker with the mainframe of our tiny universe while I learned how to bend pixels and programs to my will. He tried to get me work in the field more than once, but I wasn’t interested in the heavy workload, erratic hours, or the idea of crawling around in server closets like a digital plumber. Art and design eventually pulled me away from that track, but I’ll always carry those memories with him.
There was another thing we shared that wasn’t so noble: smoking.
He would buy me a carton a week when I was in sober living or board and care facilities, in exchange for staying off drugs and alcohol. It sounds insane today—almost like a tragic comedy—but back then, cigarettes were the “harm reduction.” The lesser evil. The treat after surviving hell. I didn’t question it. He didn’t either.
He eventually caught lung cancer. He survived it, miraculously—fifteen years clean from chemotherapy and radiation—and then it came back. The second time didn’t play nice. When it returned, he was 75. That was when the game ended for him.
I quit smoking while he was dying. I was terrified. I wanted to be better, maybe show him something noble about his son before the clock ran out. After his funeral, I picked it back up. I don’t know if it was grief, weakness, or a lifetime of associations, but I lit that first cigarette and thought I had found comfort. Instead, I was burying myself beside him.
Holidays bring these memories back. It’s not always jingle bells and family hugs—sometimes it’s the quiet gravity of remembering who we came from and what we’re carrying. My father would have been proud of my art, the computer skills, the way I reinvent myself. He would not have liked the rants, the online drama, the digital flamethrowing I aimed at my own family. But I also don’t know what he intended to leave behind for me—emotionally, financially, spiritually. That’s the mystery parents take with them.
All I know is that I’m still here.
Day 56 without a cigarette.
A son trying to honor what was good about his father… and break the bad.
I got this.
by Dan and Bonkers
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