Dear Dad,

Today marks another birthday of mine, and this time it lands on a Sunday. The concepts of time, months, years, celebrations, or even calendars mean nothing to you now that you’re no longer here. At least, that’s what I imagine.

This morning, as I penned my annual birthday journal entry—a tradition I cherish—I noted bitterly that this was the first time I wouldn’t receive your cheerful birthday call. You used to ask “How’s the weather up there in New York?” and inquire about when I’d use the fifty-dollar Applebee’s gift card you always sent, which invariably arrived three days early.

As I delved into those birthday memories—the ones I’ve recounted year after year, including the last decade—I realized that this reminiscence would turn into yet another letter to you. This birthday feels markedly poignant and distinct, simply because you’re not here with us anymore.

There wouldn’t be a festive birthday greeting or a call, but my recollections of you at our yearly Fourth of July family barbecue linger on. I remember how you diligently kept us children at bay from that old, rusty grill as you waited patiently for the coals to turn white and perfect for grilling Mom’s thin homemade burgers.

The summer of 1971 in Bayonne on East Thirty-Third Street continued to unfold memorably. I recall waking up early to the oppressive humidity, a precursor to yet another sultry day. Our house lacked ubiquitous air conditioning; only the first level enjoyed the luxury, located as it was in your bedroom window, remember?

We couldn’t afford a cooling system for every room, so naturally, you and Mom reaped the benefits of chilled evenings while we kids endured night after sweltering night. My bedroom window remained perpetually open throughout that summer, or at least until I grew weary of the briny odor of fish that drifted in from the nearby port when the tide was low.

I would leave the house quietly at 6:00 a.m. to walk along the empty Broadway streets towards West Twenty-Eighth Street, heading to St. Henry’s to attend the 7:00 a.m. Mass with Father Duncanson. He always welcomed me warmly with a smile and a gentle thumb blessing on my forehead. In gratitude, I made sure to assist in the Mass without any mistakes – no delays, no accidents with the holy water or wine.

One warm summer evening around six, Father paid a visit during dinner time to us four ‘apostles’ as we sat in the hot kitchen. (Dad, you often proudly claimed our middle names after the Gospel authors: Richie as Matthew, Joel as Mark, me as Luke, and you as John, remember?)

You had called us in from playing stickball to clean up and change into fresh T-shirts for the occasion. Dinner with Father Duncanson or any other parish priest was always a cause for celebration, sometimes even warranting dessert like ice cream to help us beat the relentless heat.

That evening, Father Duncanson was dressed in his clerical attire, complete with his white collar. His hair was neatly cut and styled, a stark contrast to his appearance during our last vacation.

I could detect the scent of his Old Spice aftershave, reminiscent of the fragrance you used when you shaved every other week. Likely overwhelmed by his own perspiration in our stifling home, he proposed a refreshing idea to take us on a night cruise on the Staten Island Ferry following dinner.

At the time, I was unfamiliar with the ferry. You were behind the wheel that evening, Dad, while Father Duncanson occupied the front seat. In the back, my brothers and I jostled about in our Ford Fairlane station wagon, the very basic model you chose, lacking air conditioning.

What was it about staying cool that seemed to bother you? Was it always a monetary concern? Did you think it was an extravagance we couldn’t justify, or did you perhaps find some strange comfort in the heat?

You never provided an answer, so all of us rolled down our windows as we drove to the furthest end of town, crossing the Bayonne Bridge into Staten Island, heading for the St. George Terminal located in the borough’s northeastern part.

I recall Father Duncanson handing each of us a nickel to put in the antiquated turnstile before we dashed onto the waiting ferry. Imagine that, Dad. It cost Father Duncanson just fifty cents to take us on an evening cruise around New York Harbor. We felt like we were on top of the world!

On the ferry, I stood with my brothers at the forefront of the upper deck, the breeze tussling our hair, the salty sea air soothing our flushed cheeks. I was mesmerized by the swirling water below, then looking up to be greeted by the Statue of Liberty as the ferry embarked on its twenty-five-minute journey to Whitehall Terminal in Lower Manhattan.

It was a moment much like Dorothy might have felt seeing the Emerald City for the first time in The Wizard of Oz. New York City, illuminated by its towering skyscrapers and myriad wonders that my young mind could scarcely fathom, seemed to promise the chance to fulfill yearnings I had yet to define.

I felt an exhilarating surge of life within me, a sense that life as I knew it was poised to change, and we hadn’t even disembarked from the ferry yet.

During the middle of our journey, Father Duncanson gestured towards the skyline where the faint gleam of what appeared to be a chapel or church shimmered. He mentioned it was a place where sailors would come to attend services after long periods at sea, and we could visit it once we disembarked in Manhattan.

As we left the ferry, I recall walking towards the church’s entrance, though I don’t recollect us stepping inside. Likely, we were pressed for time and needed to catch our ferry back to Staten Island before journeying over the Bayonne Bridge to our familiar abode on Thirty-Third Street.

This introduction to New York City, alongside Dad, marked my initial encounter where I felt both teased and tempted to delve deeper into its enticing mysteries, even as a young boy of eleven.

Upon returning, my brothers and I retreated to our overheated rooms to prepare for bed, while you and Father Duncan remained in the kitchen, sharing conversations over cigarettes at the table.

I stumbled into the kitchen, struggling to find sleep amid the stifling heat. Drenched in perspiration, still weary from the day’s ferry journey, I yearned for a cool refuge. The kitchen glowed under a stark white light, where smoke faintly danced, and I noticed you and Father Duncanson at the table, a bottle of Seagram’s Seven whiskey open between you. Each of you had an empty shot glass before you.

(I remembered the brand, Seagram’s, because it was the same one you kept hidden deep within the top shelf of your closet in the bedroom, brought out only for special occasions like Christmas, New Year’s, or tonight, with Father Duncanson’s visit.)

Desperate for some relief, I asked if I could retreat to your air-conditioned room until Mom returned from work. You nodded, dismissing me with a wave as you reached for the bottle to pour another round for yourself and the priest.

Overwhelmed by exhaustion and the heat, I ambled down the hallway, pushed open the door to the blissful chill of your bedroom. I navigated through the darkness to Mom’s side of the bed—she always preferred sleeping on the left, right, Dad? I nestled into her spot, curling up under a thin sheet, my face buried into the soothing coolness of her down pillow, and was soon enveloped by a profound, serene slumber.

I awoke with an urge to urinate, but the comfort of Mom’s spot in the bed was too much to leave. I had not moved since falling asleep, yet when I did stir, I discovered a soft hand inside my underwear and gentle fingers caressing me.

Suddenly alert, I thought, What is happening? I was in Mom’s place in the bed, but who was pressed against me? And whose breath, tinged with the smell of whiskey, was I feeling on my neck?

Realization dawned and my panic surged: It was Father Duncanson beside me, in your bed, and he was molesting me while I slept in what should have been Mom’s safe space.

Take a moment, Dad, to let this memory sink in. Perhaps you’ll need a minute, or an hour, or perhaps even fifty-one years – the same amount of time this memory has circled in my thoughts, now as a sixty-two-year-old man.

In reality, it’s been a lifetime since this incident occurred. Did I mention it took place under your supervision, in your bed, involving our parish priest, the eminent Father Duncanson?

Indeed, I believe I just did. Yet, it feels as if it occurred merely last night! The more I dwell on the memory, the more I sense the same feelings of violation, betrayal, and anger that initially overwhelmed me.

Let me clarify, Dad. My feelings of being violated, betrayed, and angry have only deepened because I’ve been harboring this secret for fifty years, while you have never acknowledged its occurrence.

You might wonder, what ensued afterward? I moved to my left, Father Duncanson’s hand slipped from my underwear, and I quietly left your bed. tiptoeing through the stillness to your bedroom door, I opened it, stepped out, and gently closed it behind me, it making hardly a sound.

I hoped to leave the room quietly, either without alerting Father Duncanson or avoiding his grasp. If he was already awake, I feared he would silence me with his hand and drag me back to the shadowy confines of the bedroom for his sinister intentions, reminiscent of a chilling horror scene.

Breaking free into the living room, I was greeted by a refreshingly cool atmosphere despite the outside heat. The early morning light gently filtered through the thin curtains, heralding the dawn.

Stealthily, I moved across the carpeted floor to my own bedroom and eased the door open. Inside, my mother was sleeping soundly on my bed. Known for her light sleeping due to constant worry, she instantly woke up, alarmed.

“What’s the matter, what’s going on? Is everything all right?” she inquired anxiously.

“No,” I whispered back, “Father Duncanson had his hand in my underwear… he was touching me.”

That was all I said, Dad, promise. Mom said nothing, promptly got up, brushed a clump of hair back from her face, gave me a quick hug, helped me into my bed, and covered me with a sheet.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispered and left.

I tried to do as she said, but it wasn’t easy as I was already replaying in my confused mind what had just happened to me. I was still tired, so I closed my eyes and fell asleep. I remember waking a few hours later in the full light of morning, still thinking about the incident, wondering if it might have been a dream.

I rubbed my eyes as I walked into the kitchen. You and Mom stopped talking about whatever you were talking about, and I looked around and asked where Father Duncanson was.

He had already returned to the rectory, dealing with priestly duties, as Mom mentioned. I remained quiet, my gaze fixed on the kitchen sink while I washed the dishes.

“Okay,” was the only response I recall giving, silently hoping for either you or Mom to address the glaring, unspoken issue between us. Yet, communication was never our family’s forte, particularly not about matters of such gravity, thus silence prevailed.

My mind wrestled with a mix of emotions—confusion, guilt, shame, sadness—perhaps all these, perhaps something more. You both refrained from asking any questions, sparing me from needing to respond.

Meanwhile, I was teeming with inquiries of my own, lacking the courage or opportunity to voice them. There was nothing else to discuss, right, Dad? Best to just keep moving forward without making a fuss.

Summer was drawing to a close, and another game of stickball with the neighborhood kids from Willow Street was looming. In just a few weeks, I’d start eighth grade.

Len Prazych has been engaged in professional writing throughout most of his adult career, starting as a freelancer, later running his own public relations, marketing, and advertising firm, and eventually serving as the editor-in-chief of a weekly industry publication. My Fathers: Letters of Healing on a Quest for the Truth marks his debut as a book author.

This article is an excerpt from My Fathers: Letters of Healing on a Quest for the Truth.

The opinions shared are solely those of the author.

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Len Prazych has been a professional writer for most of his adult life, first as a freelancer, then as owner of his public relations, marketing and advertising company, then as editor-in-chief of a weekly trade magazine. My Fathers: Letters of Healing on a Quest for the Buildings is his first book.

Len Prazych has been a professional writer for most of his adult life, first as a freelancer, then as owner…