254 days after…

my dad

September 1, 2023. Today would be my dad’s 88th birthday. He died at what today we think of as fairly young: 72.

A few months ago, 60 days to be exact (I’m journaling now, so I see that it was July 3), my father surprised me in a dream. I was lost (in this dream), wondering where I was—who I was anymore. Feeling alone, always alone. When I turned around, my father was there. And we hugged, and I wasn’t alone. I was so excited to see him I woke up. And then he was gone.

I remember my father, Don, telling me how much he missed his father, Herman. How he missed his father’s hugs. How he wished he could hug his father again, just one more time.

A day doesn’t pass that I don’t think about my dad.

Every day, because of something I see or do, or the way I do it, or the sounds and scents I experience—the way I clear my throat; the way I laugh too loudly at the TV; the way I relish a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (sometimes…like he taught me…I even add mayonnaise!); the way I think I can tackle DIY projects; the way I mismatch my outfits, mixing odd colors and patterns (my sense of fashion seems to be genetically linked to his), thinking my clothes, my style, actually make sense; the way I use Irish Spring body wash like cologne (because it smells like him); the way my hands look, my fingernails, the unruly curliness of my hair especially at my temples—I remind myself of my dad.

I wish my father was here to see that I have experienced joy again, and to see the work I’ve completed. I know he’d be proud. Maybe that’s what he wanted me to know 60 days ago when he hugged me, just one more time.

♥