Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Two Years Ago Today
Two years ago today I received a phone call that told me that I would never get to see you again. Two years ago today you were out having fun with friends doing your favorite thing in the world, snowmobiling, when you had a heart attack, that would take you away. Isn't that how we all want to go? Doing our most favorite thing? But does that make it any easier for those left behind?
Two years ago and four days was the last time we talked. I never really got to say good bye except for the good byes we shared over the phone. Is that satisfying? I don't think so. I remember that conversation vividly and everything we talked about. I play it over and over again hoping against hope that I said "I love you, daddy" as we hung up the phone. But not having closure and getting to say a true goodbye, that's a real regret in a life not full of many.
Even though I don't live in the same state you lived in anymore, having moved away much to your chagrin, to spread my wings, I haven't been able to go back since the funeral. Yet, I smell you in the wind. I question when I smell it and apparently no one else can. People look at me like I am crazy. I smell you in my car, when I am near your parents, or sometimes when I am just feeling lonely. You don't come to me in my dreams often but you come to me in my waking hours. Thank you for that.
Two years and four months later, you are supposed to be walking me down the aisle. That's a dad's job. And you were a great dad. But you won't be there; you can't be there. In all of the wedding planning, that's been one of the hardest things to deal with. Your absence. The obvious hole where you should be. It's going to be a happy day and I hope I can sense you in the wind when I am thinking of you on that day too.
I love you Dad.