This Day | October 11th

October 11th.

A couple of days ago I called my Mom. Per the norm, our conversation bounced from topic to topic. We talked about Lyla and her dance classes; about Ava and her attitude... before I asked her. I knew she'd know and I also knew that she didn't want to tell me. The day our dad died.


It's a weird thing, really. You don't want to celebrate or commemorate it- even remember it happened.  At the same time, you want to play a part in the support system that encompasses your loved ones on a day you know they are sad. I don't want them to hurt but in my heart, I know there's no stopping the pain of our loss.

Much like my sister, I am constantly telling stories of my dad to other people. And when my story is finished, the lucky recipent of the story smiles... and I'm smiling too because hell yes, he was a good man. My dad lives on in memory. Everyone said he would, but y'all. It's not good enough. I want him to know our daughters. I wanted him to walk my baby sister down the aisle. I want him to know her babies one day. I want my mom not to be without his company.


Missing him is like a storm. It's got highs and lows. It's got fear, laced with regret. Lot's of frustration.


You know what my biggest fear is? That slowly and in the most subtle way, I'll forget him. I know you're shaking your head thinking "Ya right. He's your dad". Obviously I won't forget him as a father but the little things that were a part of him... Like he always laid on the floor right in front of the TV with three pillows stacked up to watch movies. The sound of his laugh when something was REALLY and I mean REALLY funny, like he couldn't get air. How he used to get scabs off his hands with his pocket knife. That he used to let us hit his punching bag in the garage when we were little girls. His words of advice, y'all. How he used to remind me to stick up for myself because quite possibly, no one else would. When he used to take Megan and me to junk yards and let us listen to Creedence Clear Water Revival. He loved fruit. That it took major effort to keep him out of the kitchen while cooking. When he'd jab us in the ribs and BEG for us to take a shot back. His unforgiving tickling and his pride.


What I want is to make a list a mile long and keep it some where so that I won't forget. Because I am forgetting. He's not here. I don't get to call him and tell him my stories. Call him and see what he's up to. Despite our best efforts, when things are out of sight, they are out of mind.

To you, Dad.

I tell Lyla and Ava stories about you in an effort to remember. It's only been two years, I know. And I know you are watching over us. I can feel you though Lyla and my dreams. I know you're happy and I know you miss us just as much as we miss you.

I pray you've got company. You always hated being alone. Someone to eat with you, someone to talk with you. I hope you are watching my babies grow. It's something miraculous. Being a parent is everything you told me it would be. I try to keep the grace you had and to always check around for a better price.

You shouldn't be a memory, but you are. Sometimes my heart just aches to point that it physically pains me. You know,  I'm positive you hate that the three of us get upset that you're gone. Lately, when I think about you, I can see happy. I can remember you outside of the cancer, and that's a good thing.

Till then, Daddy. 

Your daughter,

Amanda