Everyday Susa

Ten years ago today, my father died. He fell over, dead, mere feet away from where I sat with my history book in my lap. My mom found him a few minutes later. I remember her screams, my siblings' cries, and the pure denial that filled me. I didn't believe my dad could die until someone grabbed my hands, stared into my eyes, and forced me to hear the truth. It was five days before my 16th birthday. My seven younger siblings and I buried our father a week later. In the last ten years, we've become strong, independent humans, capable of our dreams.    What follows is a raw, candid letter to my dad on the tenth anniversary of his death.  Hey, Dad. It's me, your firstborn. It's been ten years since you left. Ten years since you died. Ten years since I last heard your voice, saw your smile, and felt your hugs. We say "passed away" because it's gentler on the listener, but there's nothing gentle about death. The world is a sad place, filled