Seven

I've written of this event before, I shall write of it again. On this date, seven years ago, my Dad died. I was going to use a euphemism for "died" then asked myself, why? Why should I use a euphemism for the simple fact that death came for my father on a cold, moonlit night in February? It comes for us all at some point in our lives. Some folks are ready for it, perhaps even welcome it. But the one surety in this life is death. (Taxes are not a certainty. Not everyone pays taxes, but everyone dies.)

There was a lot going on at the beginning of the year 2010. I was beginning my exile in Andover. My youngest child discovered she was pregnant. My Dad was suffering some pretty severe health problems. As all things do, these things passed. I eventually returned from Andover. My daughter had a beautiful baby girl (followed some years later by a second). My Dad didn't recover from his health problems.

They killed him.

I hope you don't think I'm being overly morbid about all this. But sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I still weep over the loss of my Dad. I don't mean a broken, sobbing, hysterical weeping, usually it's just a catch of the breath, a single tear, perhaps a long silence which is no doubt accompanied by me staring into the infinite distance, completely unfocused and somehow not really there.

There are days when it feels like Dad's death was a long, long time ago. On other days, especially at this time of year, it feels like yesterday. The hurt fades, it doesn't go away. It doesn't ever go away.

Of course I remember the good times we had. But the void, the silence that is left behind is sometimes overwhelming. Perhaps not everyone feels that way, perhaps they hide it well, or perhaps they never really cared. I only know how I feel.

I miss you Dad.

A lot.