My dad died.
My dad died.
My dad died.
I keep thinking these words, waiting for them not to shock me. They still shock me. If I say them out loud–”my dad died”–my eyes well up with the kind of tears you get when you pluck a nose hair––instantaneous, uncontrollable tears. Tears that surprise you.
The end was excruciating, but he was peaceful. This is supposed to comfort me. I asked him to send me a sign from the other side. Some hours after he passed, the cactus on my mom’s balcony bloomed. There are other signs too, ones I keep to myself. They are mine, the last gifts he’s given me. Or maybe not the last ones. Maybe there will be more. I can hope.
My dad was a good man. A decent human being. How rare those seem to be. He was warm. He was playful and funny. He loved his girls. He raised us to see possibilities. He was hardworking and loyal. He wrote notes on napkins with little smiley faces and put them in our lunch bags. He coached us in softball and in so many other things. He was always there. He stood on his tippy-toes in photos so he’d be taller than my sister and me. He loved sports as much as he loved musicals. The soundtrack to Les Misérables will always remind me of him. He read every one of my books, except the last, the one that comes out in a year, the one I finished when he was no longer able to read. It’s dedicated to him.
I don’t know who’s going to ask me how my car is running now. I don’t know who is going to sing “happy birthday” on my voicemail every year. I don’t know who’s going to text me and ask if I need anything at Costco. I’ve never known life without my dad in it. This is an obvious fact, a “duh.” But it feels so poignant. No wonder I feel so off-kilter. Forty-one years with this man who contributed half of my DNA. I took for granted there would be more years for us, but there are just more for me. Somehow, I both knew this would be reality and never considered it. The words “I’ll miss him” don’t suffice, but they are all I have. I’ll miss him.
