The weird thing about death – or at least one of the weird things – is how it distorts time.

It has been ten months since we lost my dad, yet sometimes it feels like just a few days since I last saw him. As I write this I am sitting on the couch in his house, and part of me expects to hear the familiar sounds of his homecoming at any moment.

I always loved that sound throughout my childhood. I can actually imagine myself a little girl, running to the door to greet him, throwing my arms around him and breathing in the familiar smell of his suit. It is a visceral memory that delights my senses.

He is still here, in every corner, in every space in this house. Sometimes, it feels like he never left. In a way, he hasn’t.

At the same time, sometimes it feels like he’s been gone for years. It feels like he has missed so much.


Last night the girls and I ate at The Brick Alley Pub.  As we were sitting there I remembered that the last time we were there was to celebrate my birthday.  We came with my parents. In my mind I thought that couldn’t have been my most recent birthday (a little less than a year ago); Dad has been gone longer than that.  I thought it had to have been my birthday two years ago that I was recalling.

But…it wasn’t. It was only eleven months ago, that birthday celebration. This year will be my first birthday without him. I didn’t necessarily see him on each of my 44 birthdays (I would wager to say I did on most), but without fail, from near or far, I was serenaded by him.  Oh, I will miss that sweetly terrible sound so very much.

I miss him every day, and I suspect I always will…even as the days, weeks, months and years blur and warp and weave in my mind.

It matters not, how long has passed…

The ache is just as deep.

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