People say "it will get easier." Maybe they believe it. Maybe they've never experienced loss. Maybe they don't know what else to say. Maybe for them it did get easier.
For me: it isn't easier.
I still miss my dad every single day. And every single day I think of him and wish he was still here.
My dad with the kids in 2004.
Sometimes I talk to him. Sometimes I sit and marvel that he is really gone because I can't believe he's really gone. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I want to look at pictures or look at things he has written. Sometimes I just want to remember what it was like to have my dad around and very present in my life.
2004.
There are a million things I miss about my dad. And despite life moving on and moving forward, whether you want it to or not, I wouldn't say it is any "easier". It's just different. Life is just different and because you can't sit in bed all day, crying...you get up and move about your day and several times you will be brought back to the person you miss: a song on the radio, a familiar scent as you walk outside, a certain time of day, a shirt hanging in the closet, a meal at the dinner table, a saying often used, an image on TV, or a picture hanging above your desk.
Millions of little things every single day for the past seven years.
As life changes this year for my family the absence of my dad feels painful. There is so much I wish he were here to see, to experience, to enjoy. There are so many questions I still have and so many conversations I wish I could have.
One of my favorite pictures of my dad and Jennifer, 2004. My dad loved puzzles, October 2004.
Tomorrow marks the seventh anniversary of my dad's death. We talk about my dad (or, "Papa" for the kids) all the time. We watch videos, we look at photos, we remember and reminisce. We smile, we laugh, and I get choked up.
October, 2004 in Lake Tahoe. The picture in the donut shop used to be a place my dad took me as a two-year old toddler to get donuts when we vacationed in Tahoe back in the late 60s...so we took the kids there during this trip.
Tomorrow I am making a dinner that brings back a memory of my dad. He loved ordering Chili Size in restaurants. I don't think my mom ever made it at home, but I honestly don't remember. My mom tells me that on the day after their wedding, while honeymooning in Vegas, my dad ordered Chili Size and my mom laughed because nothing says sexy and honeymoon quite like a hamburger patty smothered with chili beans, onions, and cheese! But, remembering how much my dad loved Chili Size makes me smile.
This picture was taken at my niece Carrie's wedding in October, 2004 and makes me cry every single time. So sweet and the only time my daughter will dance with her grandfather.
It's the simple little things we do now that brings me/us closer to my dad on his anniversary...and I like to use food as a way to bridge the gap making sure that his life continues to be apart of our life today. (Maybe my kids will always associate Chili Size with Papa because I say how much he loved it every time I make it!)
My dad during his last visit to Idaho in October, 2005. In the garage doing what he does best: helping out. In this case he was fixing a tire on the boys bike; my last birthday celebration with my dad; and with my brother in his backyard.
I miss you, dad. Every single minute, every single day.
A picture taken in spring of 2005 when my parents were staying with us until their house around the corner was finished and ready to move in. I love this shot because it reminds me of the everyday moments of my dad: his daily medicine, a pencil, and his newspaper puzzle he always worked on with his morning coffee.
My life will never quite be the same.
For me: it isn't easier.
I still miss my dad every single day. And every single day I think of him and wish he was still here.
Sometimes I talk to him. Sometimes I sit and marvel that he is really gone because I can't believe he's really gone. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I want to look at pictures or look at things he has written. Sometimes I just want to remember what it was like to have my dad around and very present in my life.
There are a million things I miss about my dad. And despite life moving on and moving forward, whether you want it to or not, I wouldn't say it is any "easier". It's just different. Life is just different and because you can't sit in bed all day, crying...you get up and move about your day and several times you will be brought back to the person you miss: a song on the radio, a familiar scent as you walk outside, a certain time of day, a shirt hanging in the closet, a meal at the dinner table, a saying often used, an image on TV, or a picture hanging above your desk.
Millions of little things every single day for the past seven years.
As life changes this year for my family the absence of my dad feels painful. There is so much I wish he were here to see, to experience, to enjoy. There are so many questions I still have and so many conversations I wish I could have.
Tomorrow marks the seventh anniversary of my dad's death. We talk about my dad (or, "Papa" for the kids) all the time. We watch videos, we look at photos, we remember and reminisce. We smile, we laugh, and I get choked up.
Tomorrow I am making a dinner that brings back a memory of my dad. He loved ordering Chili Size in restaurants. I don't think my mom ever made it at home, but I honestly don't remember. My mom tells me that on the day after their wedding, while honeymooning in Vegas, my dad ordered Chili Size and my mom laughed because nothing says sexy and honeymoon quite like a hamburger patty smothered with chili beans, onions, and cheese! But, remembering how much my dad loved Chili Size makes me smile.
It's the simple little things we do now that brings me/us closer to my dad on his anniversary...and I like to use food as a way to bridge the gap making sure that his life continues to be apart of our life today. (Maybe my kids will always associate Chili Size with Papa because I say how much he loved it every time I make it!)
I miss you, dad. Every single minute, every single day.
My life will never quite be the same.
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