I miss you, Dad

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 with death. It's everywhere--in the news, on social media, on the side of the highway--and we can't escape it. It feels silly to so keenly mourn one person when so many die every day, but I still miss you. I miss you, Dad. I miss my dad, and you've missed so much. So I'm going to write this letter to you, hit publish, and let your memory mark this day.

Your grandson turns three tomorrow, Dad. He was born seven years and one day after you died. It hurts when I think about how much you'd love him. About how proud you'd be of him, of me, and of all your children. He's sweet, incorrigible, bright, and fast talking just like his mommy. He's already two years older than your youngest child when you died--how young we all were. I think that's why it hurt so much. We were all in such shock and had no idea how we were going to live without you. Of course, we did live without you. We survived each hour until, one day, we realized that we were thriving.

Let's go back to your grandson, Dad. We call you Grandpa Steve, and I already tell my son stories of his black bearded grandpa. In a year or two, he'll learn while his mommy always cries quietly and sadly the night before his birthday. Soon, he'll learn why he gets an entire birthday week instead of just a day. Remember birthday week? I do. You made the mundane and ordinary so special. When you died only five days before my birthday--during my birthday week--it morphed into funeral week.


My memories of you want to fade. I've carefully compiled them and locked them into the tightest box of my mind, but slowly they're graying with time. There are still days where I demand you come back and have a talk with me. I want your wisdom, your conspiracy theories, and your stories. I want my son to sit on your lap, and I want to see the pride in your eyes because your firstborn is raising her firstborn.

I tell myself your death was quick and relatively peaceful. Isn't that what I should want for you? Did you know you were leaving? Did you reach out to say goodbye to all of us? We were only feet away and we didn't know you were leaving us.  Perhaps, even in your final moments, you were the eternal optimist and thought you'd wake up with us gathered around you.

You are missed, Dad. Your children have spent the last decade growing up, but when we're honest with ourselves, we see that we still need you. It's the little parts of life where you're missed; the phone calls, the dinners, the grandchild's first steps. We've become accustomed to you missing the graduations, the weddings, and the birthdays.  Yet, I'll never fully accept that I can't text or call you. Would you text me back or insist on calling me? I wish I knew.

I've constructed an idea of you in 2017. Your beard is now silver and hair going on white. You finally lost that weight that you hauled around and, ironically, finally opened that yogurt shop.  You have a Facebook to keep tabs on the world, but still call one of us each day.  You've accepted  my husband after some argument (because I know you'd have fought me on that)and you argue with me over politics. But the most important part of this precious daydream of mine is: that you're here, and  you have been here for the past ten years.

You're not here, though. You've missed the last ten years, and you're not coming back. So, I'll continue to miss you, even if my memories gray along with me.