It's March 4. The second anniversary of my dad's passing. I don't sit here mourning in a black shawl every day. But on landmark dates I do feel the need to reflect, if only for a moment.
Two years ago today, I was antsy and waiting for time to pass so I could get on a plane to him. I hadn't seen him since January, the longest absence since the accident. Then I got a phone call that changed everything. Today, after a day of seeing off a friend/a little shopping, I'm sitting on my couch with my dog, doing work while watching the Blackhawks beat the Red Wings. It's been a pleasant, quiet day, and that won't change with this look back.
I wonder exactly how much of my life my dad sees now. I wonder if he's proud of me, if he approves of the choices I make, and if he thinks I'm doing a good job in my relationship with mom. I know he'd make fun of my outfits, of my geriatric chihuahua Opal, and mostly, of me when I second-guess myself. He was the least worried of any of my family when I moved to Chicago, because in his words, "that girl ain't scared of nothing. Nobody's gonna walk on her."
I hope he understands my missteps, recognizes then forgives the moments that I lose confidence, laughs at the jokes I make to myself, beams with genetic repletion when I sing, and is proud when I truly get things right.
Most of all, I hope he know that I love him. And that still miss him, every single day. And because of his insistence on me knowing the entire Motown catalog by age 10, I'm unstoppable at pub trivia.
