I’m missing my dad a lot today, for obvious reasons. To be very honest, I’ve been dreading Father’s Day the same way I dreaded his birthday and my parents’ anniversary, but today definitely hit me harder than I was expecting it to, and I’ve been a little bit of a recluse, not wanting to deal with the Father’s Day brunches or sales or picnics in the park.
It’s been a strange, sad two months—on some days, it feels like he passed away years ago, on others, I feel that same numb hollowness I did when we drove home from the hospital that last time. I keep it together pretty well on most days, but there are small moments that still sneak up on me, usually when I don’t expect it. When I read an article and remember I can’t forward it to him, or when I’m standing in Best Buy and I can’t call him to get his opinion on whether or not it’s worth it to buy something.
I’m grateful every day that my life is overflowing with great, brilliant memories. I love this picture—it was taken up at our old cabin in Flagstaff (this same cabin my grandmother sold the week he passed away). We used to go up there all the time when we were younger, both in the summer to escape the heat and in the winter to go skiing. My dad started us very early on skis; I still remember being in first grade and watching, awed, at how great of a skier he was. I remember him out on the cabin’s porch, his feet propped up on the rails, reading, reading, reading with the mountains behind him. And that’s been the hardest thing of all—accepting the fact that he’s alive only in memories, no matter how wonderful they are.