1/26/2018
I guess I'm not quite sure what the protocol is. Do I wish you a happy birthday, or is that wrong because you're gone? I guess I always hear people say "Well he/she would have been...." so, Dad, you would have been 61 this year. Is it weird to find it satisfying that you died in a multiple of 5? That's the way I like to adjust the volume in my car or on the TV...so having that 0 at the end of your birthday feels more...final, somehow? Maybe it's that it helps me feel a sense of control over something that was so radically out of my control? Maybe it's because I'm still listening to my "Dad Jamz" playlist, and sometimes the music is just a little too loud in my car but it always feels right. It might be a little obsessive, but we've all got our problems. Loud music will always be one of mine. After all, I am your daughter.
Whoa, sorry about all of that. I feel like when I get really overwhelmed I look for the things that comfort me. I guess that little Woolf-rant about a life-long habit is just one example of the moments I've needed in the 10 months that you've been gone. It even feels weird to say. How can 10 months simultaneously feel like a lifetime and a single breath? I don't know if I'll ever understand it, but I know I'll learn to cope with it better (or at least I pray I will).
I think I just still can't process that I don't get to tell you things anymore. I guess I still tell them to you by writing these out, and I believe that you can see what's going on in my life, but I want your feedback. I want you to tell me what you think of the Cowboys 9-7 season. I want to talk politics with you. I want to hear about who has visited you lately and what they're up to. I want to show you all of the places I've taken your passport in the last 10 months. I want to tell you about the hikes I've done and the trips I've taken. I want to swap more stories. I would give anything to hear one of your stories. I regret the times that I helped finish one that I'd heard a thousand times because I want to hear it so bad. I feel even more ridiculous because I always knew that I needed to be cherishing these moments, and I still finished your stories or reminded you that you already told me. I want to sit and drink a nice single-malt scotch with you. I want to go to El Matador, so Emily and I can tell them it's your birthday. I want to watch you fume that you can't get away from the table, so you have to sit there and let us sing to you while you wear a sombrero. I can see it so clearly in my mind that I don't know if it's actually happened before or if I'm fabricating memories. I want to watch an episode of Breaking Bad with you because we never finished the series. I want to FaceTime so I can show you my dog and my cabin. I want to complain about the stupid amount of snow piled up outside. I want to hear you say "peachy-keen" (which I always thought was "peachy-king") or end a phone call with "peace, love, grand-funk".
If nothing else, I want to simply exist with you.
Well, I guess that's actually a pretty large request.
I've caught myself doing or saying things that feel like you. I didn't realize how many of my idiosyncrasies were things I picked up from you over the years. I never thought twice about calling myself a "nekojita" when describing my aversion to super hot drinks. I will never think it's weird to add an ice cube or two to a piping hot cup of coffee. I didn't realize that it's impossible for me to say "Ohio" without immediately singing "Round on the end and 'hi' in the middle" in my head. When I talk about microwaves and tell people to "nuke it"- I should tell you that I'm trying to break this habit because of all the utter insanity in the US. I didn't realize that my need to make other people feel comfortable in awkward situations comes from you cracking jokes about wheelchairs in a room when people don't know what to say.
Hear me out, I know you hate(d) Fleetwood Mac- this is where I'm like mom-but I actually broke down crying while getting ready for work last week because "Landslide" came on. It was this live version, and you hear Stevie Nicks say "This is for you, Daddy". I just lost it. Right in the middle of putting on my mascara. It is inconvenient, this grief of mine. I was just trying to start my day, and suddenly I had to be aggressively reminded that you're gone. I went to Thailand in November, and on my first flight to Beijing I was aggressively reminded that I wouldn't get to tell you every last detail of the trip. Honestly, you owe the poor man next to me an apology. He just sat there in confusion while I quietly had a breakdown somewhere over the Bering Sea. I much prefer the passive reminders. It happens when I'm driving home from work, and I want to call you and tell you any of the aforementioned things, and I simply think "Oh wait, I can't." It happens when I'm digging through my purse and touch your passport- I told you it's with me everywhere I go. It happens on Sundays when I expect you to call me after a Cowboys win or a Texans loss to gloat. By the way, they didn't play each other in preseason this year because of a hurricane. I was glad the game was cancelled because I wasn't ready to face that day just yet.
I don't quite want to call it a gift, but I think that this is a lesson you're forcing me to learn, and it will continue to make me stronger. You taught me a lot about love, compassion, and empathy while you were alive. I think I'm still trying to figure out my buzz words from this lesson, but so far it feels like grace, appreciation, and trying to carpe the hell out of this diem.
This is for you, Daddy.
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