First Anniversary in a Place called Heaven

One year ago, in the early morning hours of 9-11, my father left his body and went somewhere else.  People tell me how lucky I was to have my Dad for 68 years and I know they are completely correct.  
My father was a brilliant man and he grasped certain complex concepts that others couldn't "touch".    I loved to hear him talk about the stars and the galaxies and the many principles of physics that influenced our daily lives.  He seemed to know certain things innately and he retained countless facts without any effort.  If it was a subject that was "up his alley", it was a pleasure for him to read and study and remember.   He even got in trouble in pre-seminary school at  Garrison New York, for reading books that weren't part of the assignment.  These books were not "girly" magazines or frivolous fiction; they were books on the working of electricity!  He always needed to know why things worked the way they did.  He understood anatomy and physiology better than many doctors and nurses.  And when we were young children, he built us - his kids - a recorder player from scratch - things he had laying around his house.  How many kids can say their father did that?!   I didn't even realize it was home-made until years later. I thought every kid had a 3 foot high rectangular wooden box for their record player.  
But the most important lessons I learned from my Father had to do with love.   One quick story will illustrate my point.  One time when I was a child, the front doorbell rang and when I went to open it with my father quickly following behind, there stood a woman with a strap around the back of her neck from which hung a box of trinkets - thread, pencils, and other little inconsequential things.  She asked if we wanted to buy anything - obviously she was going door to door, trying to sell her wares.  My father, with a wave of his hand, dismissed her rather abruptly.  She turned and looking dejected began her descent down the long flight of stairs at 62 Interboro Parkway.   A few minutes later my father ran down the stairs and up the street after her.  I followed close behind to see what was up.  I had no idea what he was doing and why.   He called after the woman, she turned and waited.  When my father reached her side, he apologized for his harsh response to her.  He then rummaged through her container and found something he probably didn't need or want, paid her more than it was worth.  She thanked him and we turned and walked back home together.  He never explained his actions to me, but what he did that day taught me more about love and the type of person he was than any elaborate words he could have spoken.
So, today, on the first anniversary of his passing, I have to believe he is somewhere good, surrounded by love.