[It's been a while since I wrote about my dear father.
Maybe it's because I didn't realize how much I miss his guidance, his love, his support. Rather I should say his unwavering support.
It seems that we invest a great deal of ourselves into other people to only be eventually disappointed in some capacity. My father never disappointed. He was always available for me.
It's been nearly two years since he's gone. Frankly, it’s uncomfortable for me to say this, but I can't remember him too well. And that exacerbates the pain. I wish I could see his smile. I wish I could hear his thick Boston accent telling me everything would be okay. Because he believed it would and while he was around, his family did, too.
There's something so special about the comfort a father brings when he is in this world. As I sit here flipping through an album I put together of pictures--some of me and him, some by himself, etc--I wonder if he is watching me and feeling helpless. I wonder if he is watching me in my current condition and pleading to intervene.
The days are getting darker earlier. The temperature is cooling down.
I speak to my sister on the phone. She tells me she misses him too.
She is moving into a new house now and wishes he was here to see it. Take great satisfaction in the largeness of it.
I tell her that maybe we never lose the pain. Just sometimes every day events keep us too busy to notice them.
She says, it's possible. Maybe that's how life works. It's a series of experiences and feeling piled up on one another. You are what has happened to you. Nothing more or nothing less.
I tell her I miss him so much still.
I understand, she says. We all do.]