Some days it's forgetting that you're gone, and having a mini-experience of that grief all over again. Other days it's wanting to get some of your great life advice and realizing that I will only be able to recall things you've told me. Having to realize that there's a moratorium on the life advice you provided, and that I'll never gleam anything new. That's weird to think about. I will have to depend on the 25 years I had with you to get through the rest of my life.
Other days it's simply talking about you in the present when people ask what my parents think about me moving away,etc. It's easier than having to explain that you're dead. Can you have a elevator speech about the death of a parent? I feel like I've crafted one, and it's very bizarre that I can give a synopsis of your life in the time it would take to ride an elevator with a stranger. But don't worry, I haven't hit that level of crazy yet, I'm not striking up conversations with strangers to discuss your death.
I feel like that's something I still don't know how to handle. How do you remain authentic without over-sharing? How do I express that your death can feel crippling, without freaking people out or getting the sympathy-dead-dad eyes. It's a look. I never quite understood the look, until I started to receive it all the time. It's hard to catalog how I feel when I get that look. Thankful? Frustrated? Embarrassed? Sad? Guilty? Loved? It makes for this blend where I want to say thank you and express my gratitude while simultaneously making sure they know that I don't need those eyes. I have been able to grow in the last year in ways that I would never have understood until I was on the other side. Your death was an inevitability that I spent two decades preparing for. I thought I was ready. I felt prepared. I still didn't get it, not until a year ago.
Shit, most days I'm still having to dig deep and mine the gems out of the rubble and utter destruction I felt when it happened.
I'm standing here, in the foundation of my story, and trying to remind myself that we all have different stories. I'm lucky because I had you for 25 years. Some people aren't able to have that. Some people have parents who remain aloof or aren't in the picture. I had 25 years of intentional time. I had magical bed time stories that I'm sure I'll tell again someday, and I had support and love while I made mistakes. I had someone to teach me what it means to love with your whole heart. I guess I'm just unlucky because you'll miss getting to be involved with the rest of my life. You'll miss being present in the milestones, but I don't doubt that I'll feel you in those moments. I feel you now while "the sun beats down upon my face"
I wasn't quite sure how to spend today. Do you celebrate a deathiversary? Is that a real word? I'm sure I could google it and check, but it's what feels most right. I took the day off of work, and I'm sitting out on my porch writing this while the weather tries to make up it's mind. It's raining and the sun is shining. Honestly it's just such a perfect damn metaphor for how I feel today that its almost comical. I'm listening to Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti album because it's your favorite, and I'm trying to feel you in all of the ways I've felt you in the last year. I feel pieces of your soul in the strangest of places, and every time it washes over me I just feel so damn thankful that I had the time with you that I had.
I was on the phone with mom this morning, and she was talking about how much you loved Emily and I. She was talking about how blessed we were to have a father who cared about us so deeply. She said that the light and pride in your eyes when you talked about us was overwhelming. She thinks that you were finally able to let go because you could see how happy we were. Emily and I were starting our lives, and you could see that we were going to be okay. I want you to know that I've spent every day of the last year trying to make sure that you'd still be proud. I'm living my most authentic life. I'm trying to be more vulnerable with people, and I'm trying to learn to ask for help when I need it. I'm making sure to tell the people in my life that I love them because at the end of the day, that sense of love is what will remain far after I've gone. I can still feel your love like a tidal wave, and it's been a year. So dad, you can "die easy" because we are still okay.
Shit, most days I'm still having to dig deep and mine the gems out of the rubble and utter destruction I felt when it happened.
I'm standing here, in the foundation of my story, and trying to remind myself that we all have different stories. I'm lucky because I had you for 25 years. Some people aren't able to have that. Some people have parents who remain aloof or aren't in the picture. I had 25 years of intentional time. I had magical bed time stories that I'm sure I'll tell again someday, and I had support and love while I made mistakes. I had someone to teach me what it means to love with your whole heart. I guess I'm just unlucky because you'll miss getting to be involved with the rest of my life. You'll miss being present in the milestones, but I don't doubt that I'll feel you in those moments. I feel you now while "the sun beats down upon my face"
I wasn't quite sure how to spend today. Do you celebrate a deathiversary? Is that a real word? I'm sure I could google it and check, but it's what feels most right. I took the day off of work, and I'm sitting out on my porch writing this while the weather tries to make up it's mind. It's raining and the sun is shining. Honestly it's just such a perfect damn metaphor for how I feel today that its almost comical. I'm listening to Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti album because it's your favorite, and I'm trying to feel you in all of the ways I've felt you in the last year. I feel pieces of your soul in the strangest of places, and every time it washes over me I just feel so damn thankful that I had the time with you that I had.
I was on the phone with mom this morning, and she was talking about how much you loved Emily and I. She was talking about how blessed we were to have a father who cared about us so deeply. She said that the light and pride in your eyes when you talked about us was overwhelming. She thinks that you were finally able to let go because you could see how happy we were. Emily and I were starting our lives, and you could see that we were going to be okay. I want you to know that I've spent every day of the last year trying to make sure that you'd still be proud. I'm living my most authentic life. I'm trying to be more vulnerable with people, and I'm trying to learn to ask for help when I need it. I'm making sure to tell the people in my life that I love them because at the end of the day, that sense of love is what will remain far after I've gone. I can still feel your love like a tidal wave, and it's been a year. So dad, you can "die easy" because we are still okay.
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