It was a year ago today that I lost Dad, and there hasn’t been a day gone by where I haven’t been reminded of him, from some moment I find myself in.
I’ve lost people before. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, and other relatives. I thought I knew what it meant to appreciate someone, but losing Dad really took ahold of me. It was a loss that got down into my bones, then seeped into a rage against all the things that happen around me, that I am powerless to affect. I’m left sitting here, staring out a window, and taking a mental inventory of the handful of people remaining in my life, who truly matter to me.
You could say it’s down to a small manageable size now – which would be nice if I were talking about a to-do list, or some project that needs attention, but instead I’m referring to the number of people in my life, whom I truly love and care for. That realization slowly came out of the aether, to hit me like a slap in the face, and I find myself reeling from the naked truth of it.
There’s a clock ticking all around us, and we can choose to use it as a barometer to measure the good things we have in our lives, or we can ignore it, and wake up one day, caught in a vacuum, fighting for every breath that’s being sucked out our lungs.
I miss my dad. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his voice, calling at me from some distant memory. And in those moments, my thoughts turn quickly to those who are merely a phone call away. And most times, these days, when I hear that voice, I find myself picking up the phone and pressing down some numbers, with an aim to make small, the many miles between us.
Perhaps this new way of seeing things is my dad’s parting gift to me.