I only write here once a year now. I'm probably the only person who's seen this page in a few years. That doesn't matter. It's worth keeping because it works for me.
March 4, 2013 makes 3 years since he died. I could recount the story, as I do in my head at least once a week. I could remark that some days the events feel so long ago that the intricate details are fading, or how some days I forget they even happened. I could say that I'm not sure I'll ever get over it, and how I weep if I think about it, or him, for too long.
I could tell you that my chest still tightens at the rev of a motorcycle, and that sometimes it still leaves me unable to speak. I could talk about how certain events of the past year were moments when a daughter really needed her father, and that I've faced them alone. I could reveal that as much as I love my friends, I get irrationally angry and rabidly jealous that their dad did "the funniest thing last week," and how it's not fair that they get new issues in their subscriptions and I don't.
I could describe the achy, helpless, hopeless yearning I still feel when I encounter daddies and little girls in the park, or the coffeeshop, or in my work. I could tell you that my own reflection saddens me when I see his laugh lines, and that my tiny hands and feet are his tragic replicas. I could admit that, even after years of therapy, sometimes when I remember he's gone, I don't want to be here either, and that I'd rather join him.
I could agonize because I know some of my choices have disappointed him. I could hide, embarrassed and ashamed of my mourning, unable to act the part of a human. I could give in to the sporadic yet tempting desire to stop functioning. I could, tonight, sit here, feel less than and damaged, and do nothing.
I won't.
I will acknowledge that the struggle continues. I will admit to not always being ok, and recognize the constant battle between the emotional conscience and the rational. I will miss him, but do so politely, delicately, and progressively. I will banally remind everyone that moments with loved ones are limited, and that if you don't appreciate them, I will physically fight you. I will tend to all my paternally-inherited physicalities: wash my curly hair, ice my bad back, paint my tiny toes, and sport my absurdly thick glasses. And I will write, just as I do each year, about the man I miss. I will cry. Then I will scream. Then blame myself, then laugh. I will then practice gratitude and smile. Because there's nothing that irritated Daddy more than a person who didn't realize just how good they'd had it.
I do, Daddy. I really, really do. Thanks for that.
