Ten years ago I really started hating February. Not that I particularly enjoyed the month anyway.
To be precise February 11th, was its death knell.
That was the day that my father passed from this existence on to the next.
While his death wasn’t a surprise, his terminal illness was a dead give away. My own reaction to an expected conclusion was an unexpected surprise. I thought I had steeled myself against the tsunami of grief. I watched it sweep across my entire family, leaving us all clinging to whatever structures of normalcy we could find.
I loved my dad. After his death, I hated him equally. Grief is a process that never makes sense.
So, I honor my father through writing. I miss his laugh, his wit. The raucous twinkle in his eye at a good joke. I miss his devotion to his family, to God and his country. I miss that damn beat-up tin mug he always had on his camping trips that he drank hot cocoa from.
I miss his love of singing. I miss his terrible harmonica playing, yes it was awful, but he loved to do it. I loved his stories of his life, I wish he’d have written more down.
The man I loved wasn’t perfect, but he was my father. I wasn’t ready for him to go.
I miss him. I’m still mad that he left with unfinished business.