Gabrielle Fitzpatrick

“Somewhere in Chicago there is a Dog that remembers the Stars and my Dad”

There isn’t a museum, nor a stadium, not even an ocean large enough to fit all the words I’d write to describe my father Tony Fitzpatrick, who was beloved by everyone he knew. He had a million best friends. I’ve always said that if my dad were a big cake, he’d want everyone in the world to have a slice. In the last twelve hours, maybe a thousand tributes have flooded in, all trying to paint who he was as an artist, as a man. It’s a feat that I wouldn’t dare attempt. So the best I can do is try to explain who he was as a father.
He was my best friend. As a little girl, my mother would dress me up every Sunday and he’d take me to the theater, then dinner afterwards. At eight years old he would pick my brain about what I thought of the actors’ performances. Then we’d talk about his art. The news. The movies. The mayor. The war on terror. He expected me to have a cogent opinion on everything under the sun despite my young age. And so I did.
When I was a teenager I was in trouble all the time. With everyone except for him. I could do no wrong in his eyes. I swore, spat, smoked, and shoplifted, but I was still his shining star. When I was supposed to be grounded, he’d take me out to dinner anyway. We would sit and come up with haikus on bar napkins. To him, I was perfect.
Dad: I have never felt alone in this life, because I have always had you. And what I brought myself to realize yesterday is that I always will have you. I will never lose you. I will miss you like hell. I will wonder how you’re liking that great other place you’ve passed over to. What the food’s like. Who your new friends are. But I will never lose you. And you and I will always be two inextricably linked parts of this great big world. They say that grief is just love without a home. I love you so much. Thank you for being the best father, and thank you for being my best friend. I know we will dine and dance again someday.