Hi, Dad.
So, I miss you. You know this. I know you know this because I’m always telling you this. And you respond in the ways that folks who are desperate for signs are sure to notice; the warmth of a hand on a shoulder, a puffy, heart-shaped cloud on a completely clear day, a third playing of Boz Scagg’s “Lido Shuffle” on major airwaves in 24 hours…
This first year without you has been gigantic. And endless. And lightning fast. And surprising in ways that I never could’ve imagined.
I’ve learned that, while my faith is shaky, my belief in loved ones remaining all around us has solidified.
I know that you’re not going to pick up the phone on the other end of the line, no matter how many times I accidentally call you to tell you about the song I heard, the mystery you’d love, or the Colombian chicken wafting down the street.
I’ve realized that the phrase “I’m sorry for your loss” doesn’t affect me in the slightest, but seeing a trailer for a movie you’ll never watch can wreck me for the night.
It no longer jolts me when Jasper- all of two years-old now and all of a year when you died- picks up your photo and, unbidden, kisses your face with a “Hi, Pop.”
Or how Suzy talks about you like you just left the room. (…Are you hanging out with Susannah unbeknownst to me? You can totally tell me.)
Or how Nora wells up and weeps when she does puzzles with her Daddy and asks if I did them with my Daddy, too. (It breaks my heart, but no longer jolts me.)
You are so very, very missed. Which is why P.J. utters your trademark “tremendous” at every given opportunity. Why we make pancakes every Saturday. Why I throw in an extra handful of Parmesan cheese into Alfredo recipes. Why we play the music extra loud and make sure there’s juuuust enough bass.
But no matter how often I wear your shamrock pin and play your records and quote Monty Python, I can’t do you justice. P.J. tries even harder, what with your Saturday flannels and cowboy boots and prowess with the grill. We can crumble birthday cake on top of cereal and milk, but we can’t match the inflection in your voice as you said Mom’s name or strummed along with a Beatles ballad.
I know we’re not meant to.
I know that, even though we really want to, we don’t really want to. Not really.
I just want my Dad back. And I know my Mom wants her everything back. My sisters want the greatest guy we’ve ever known, your sons-in law want their hero, your grandkids want their beloved Pop, and the legion of loved ones want to clasp hands with their Dave.
And I know you can’t come.
I drift with that knowledge most days- most hours of most days- and it becomes my new neutral; quiet grief that this is something you’ll never do, and that’s someplace you’ll never be.
And I know- I know– that you’d kick me straight in the ass if you heard me speaking (or even writing) in such maudlin tones. You’d hold up your thumb and forefinger and play the world’s tiniest violin for my sob story. And you’d ask what I wasn’t doing while I was sitting around and smearing my makeup (which you’d smudge off with the Thumb of Doom, like you did when I tried to wear mascara to a middle school dance or the many times I had some food substance on my face- and ow, that thumb did not mess around).
So here’s what else I know.
Not even cancer- not even death- can change or dim our memories of you.
We’re having your favorite chicken for dinner tonight and I’m fairly certain you’ll be there for it.
And I guarantee that Boz Scaggs has been played on Chicago radios more in the past year than in the 70s and 80s combined.
(I love you, Dad.)
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