The months of April and May give way to a rush of memories about my dad – not necessarily memories of his April 29 birthday, as that was a day he would suggest we never observe. Rather my mind wanders to Mother’s Day Weekend, 2008. Friday, May 9, my head was spinning that morning, trying to choreograph the busy days ahead. Would I head to the Twin Cities to see my mom & dad this morning? Would I go down tomorrow instead? It was another busy weekend and much like the previous 9 months, my siblings and I were attempting to coordinate our schedules so we would all see Dad at some point. He was so sick.
I stepped into the shower to start my day, and by the time I stepped out, my brother had already called to say Dad was gone.
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8 years have passed & I think often about how much life has been lived without him. Big life. Big Occasions. Big Changes.
Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Engagements. Weddings. A Divorce. Hunting trips. Baptisms. Holidays.
Babies – So. Many. Babies.
Tuesdays. Just average Tuesdays.
He’s not here and I miss him, and sometimes life is so busy & so full that his absence is something I fail to notice. But you notice someone’s absence when you need them and I needed him when my marriage ended. I needed him when my vacuum was broken, and I needed him when I wasn’t sure what Mutual Fund to open. I needed him when my daughter was born and I needed him when I moved into my very own house.
But despite the times of question & struggle, its almost as though his purpose here was to raise 4 kids JUST long enough so that when we experienced moments of hardship, we knew we could lean firmly on the idea that we were equipped with everything we needed to just keep on.
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Today, the life that is MY normal, is a life he knew NOTHING of. If he was here, he’d play with his grandchildren, he’d wear a sweatshirt with my business name on it. He’d come to the dealership where I work just to see the 40 canvases I have on display of vintage Fords. He’d make special trips up north just to help me with yard work, or fix a door or spray a squeaky hinge. He’d tell my boyfriend all about his “Jeep Days”, the times when he, too, shot handguns, and he’d probably mention a thing or two about me being ornery. Pride, generosity & humor were things he did not lack.
Also not lacking were his written reminders to us. I’d find notes like this on my desk or in my bag or on the kitchen counter:
That’s the sort of reminder that sustains you long after your dad is gone.
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Nowadays, I sit at my computer and edit photos for hours on end while serenaded by good music. Recently a song hit country radio that could have been written about my dad.
“You should be here, standin’ with your arm around me here…”
“…and you know that if I could have one wish, it’d be that you didn’t have to miss this.”
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He was a quiet fella, and I miss him in a quiet way. I glance at his picture & I hear the George Strait song that played at his funeral. I don’t cry often. I don’t often remember the 9 months where his life was ending. I think about the track practices he never missed and the way he’d sit on the edge of my bed and never let me worry. In his eyes I never failed – and even when I knew I did, he never called it failure. It was more like an opportunity to go a different direction.
He was ornery, but wonderful, short-tempered, yet patient. Just pretty much the best dad I could have hoped to have.
