Two Years and Counting

Last night at exactly 12:00am marked the two year point of my father's death. As we, his family, sat around his hospital bed, holding his hands and witnessing his final breath, all was both incredibly sad and strangely beautiful. Dramatic and intense would be other appropriate acronyms to describe that evening. I'd never seen someone leave their body like that. He went from being dad to a lifeless, empty, yet still-warm vessel. In just one instant, Dad was no longer there. I could see what he once was, but I knew he was gone.

Today and last night, as I reflect on this, on my dad, I feel odd. I'm tearless. I miss him, but it's been two years. Two years has been a long time and a short time. A lot has happened. People die and we have to move on. It's not that I don't care, or that I forget him. I think about him every day still, but with less sadness in my heart. I wonder sometimes if I will see him again, or what he's doing. Overall, I feel he is at peace.

Sometimes I do wish he could see me now, because I think he would be very proud of me. He would want to know all about my job, and he'd brag to his friends about my accomplishments. He'd come to my apartment and bring me a box of food from his house: some cans of tomatoes, maybe a zuccini from his garden, pasta, and most certainly, a bottle of cheap red wine. The last bottle he gave me was FuZion. I drank it nearly a month after his death and savoured every sip. He would meet my boyfriend, too, and probably embarrass me somehow, but they'd get along. Dad would have liked him. I'd take dad out for coffee. He'd do the crossword, but stop to listen to me ramble (or at least pretend he was listening). But, this is all silly talk in some ways, since it can't be. What can be is his memory and so I will cherish it in my heart and bring him to life in conversation.

I miss you, dad. Hope you're doing well.