My father would have turned 70 today. The last time I saw him healthy was right after his 50th birthday, when I flew to Germany to spend a few weeks with he and my mother. The next time I saw him was in the Mayo Clinic, shortly after being released from Walter Reed. I was 30 years old when my father died, and as I've said on many occasions before, I had no idea how young that truly was.

Like many who go through long periods of fatal illness with a loved one, there was a mixture of loss and release at his death. That release was not only ours, but primarily his. A fiercely independent man, an intellectual, and a voracious reader, his blindness and paralysis became an inescapable cage of self.

He never met his granddaughters, yet I often catch glimpses of him in them. Little flashes; a look, a smile, some random expression or even wording of a sentence. What a wonder it is that so much can be encoded biologically.

My father taught me to think, and to think for myself. Often, those lessons were unpleasant, painful or frustrating. A Latino man who raised himself from abject poverty to then become an officer and a doctor, he had little tolerance for me performing at anything less than my best. But he peppered the intense tutelage with remarkable tenderness, and his love for and devotion to family and friends is something I have always tried to emulate.

It's hard sometimes being with friends 10 or even 20 years my senior who have both parents alive and well. I'm happy for them, but resentful at times that I must face manhood and fatherhood on my own. I wish I had the opportunity for long, late-night conversations with him over a good bottle of rum. We disagreed on so much while he was alive, but as I travel through middle age I think he would get no small delight in watching my perspectives shift.

The joke I tell at parties is that I was raised by a soldier to be a politician, so naturally I became an artist. Now that more than a decade has passed since his death, I do feel he would have been proud of my life, and the conviction with which I pursue my destiny.

I also recognize how growing up in the military gave me both a fascination of, and a respect for ritual and ceremony. If you have never been to a military funeral, there is a moment when the captain of the guard hands the widow (or surviving family member) the triangular-folded flag that was draped over the coffin only moments before. They then stand at attention and raise a slow salute. It was truly the single moment at which I thought I might lose it.

I miss you Dad.