For you, Dad
What I miss the most is not the pomp and circumstance, not the special moments. I loved the special moments, of course. But I miss the routine. The ease of the daily routine. Breakfast with the newspaper. Coffee. Talking about the world, the government, taxes. Sitting at that table, with him in his chair, and just being. Not in a hurry.
Or, walking the dogs. Or, going to the store. Or the way he would always take a bag of trash with him on his way out. Or the way he’d come in the front door on his way back from the Y, clean and scrubbed, in his sweat pants and carrying groceries. Something he’d found for us. Poptarts for the kids.
I miss sitting in front of the TV with him. I don’t watch TV, but with him, it was a shared activity. So much nonsense. We’d laugh together.
I miss his humor, his kindness, his counsel, his pride, his strength, his devotion, his history, his intelligence, his perception, his courage, his generosity, his very presence. I miss his laugh. I miss his handwriting—firm, strong, confident – it was a script that spoke volumes about the man. I miss his kiss on the cheek and the way he’d watch my car until I was out of sight.
I miss that he always did what he said he would do. Always.
My Dad is gone one year. He was an inspiration by virtue of his courage. He fought for life to the end. He fought for me to the end. Because he was first and foremost, my dad. He was my hero. And so, I miss him. Terribly.
But I know when I look into the mirror, that he is there, reflected in the light in my eyes. He is in my kids, a surprise glimpse I get now and then that causes me to catch my breath.
I think of those talks over morning coffee or while walking dogs and I smile.
But I still miss him. I always will.