I wonder if anyone ever really ever knows their father. You know, the good stuff: what makes them tick, what thoughts go through their head when they are accountable to self only? If they had it to do all over again, what would they change?
And if the answer were everything, would I be setting at this keyboard today?
I hope not everything then.
He taught me to lie in the grass and tell stories about the lives of clouds and the fundamental truth that everything I ever need to know, I was born knowing, I just have to remember what was before…the moment before birth.
Does he remember the moment before death? I think he does. He remembers me. Sometimes I dream him back, telling him things I’ve never told anyone before because now I get his viewpoint from “there.”
How I wish he were still here.
If I close my eyes, he still is…I can hear his voice, feel his hug. He gave the best hugs of anyone I’ve ever had the pleasure of hugging. I remember his scent: Dial soap, coffee, and cigarettes. I wish for a way to recapture his scent and wrap myself in it.
I rarely allow myself the luxury of remembering him. It hurts too much.
I hurt too much.
Missing him is unbearable.
He taught me to meditate, and I honor him by remembering to meditate twice a day, even when I’m too exhausted.
He taught me the simple pleasures of reading, and daydreaming, and journaling. I try to take time for each every single day.
He taught me to love—unconditionally—and I think that was the one lesson I can aspire to teach my own children. Thank you Daddy, for loving me like that.