There’s a part of me that, if I allowed myself, would fall into a pile every day and have a good weep about my father. It’s the part of me that will never grow accustomed to the loss of him—to the large, willowy, gleaming gap his departure created in my true and devoted heart.
But I work hard to free myself from wallowing in the mark that his disappearance branded me with.
I work hard to remember his out of control cackle and the way he worshiped the sun. How he loved to treat everyone to everything as a way of showing his gratitude for being alive. How he thought I and my sister were the best things that graced the planet since the mountains and the sky. How he grappled with all that he failed to understand until the day he died and how the grappling made him feel worthy. How he forgave the unforgivable and then he forgave again. How kindness was his religion and introspection his badge of honor.
How, now that he’s gone, I drift over toward morose grieving but I’m able to pull myself back and remember how hard we used to laugh the night before elections and I know, if he were here, he’d be proud and happy about that.
What I Want To Say Is What Will Keep You Here Forever,
Tender Tammy of the Trepidatious