Three Years Ago

Three years ago Jon and I were sitting on the lawn of the Seattle zoo, listening to music from a concert, enjoying life and being out for an evening without the kids.

And then my cell phone rang.

My dad's wife told me that he hadn't spoken or eaten in five days and the hospice nurse didn't feel he had much time left.

Jon and I quickly made plans for me to drive down the next morning and I finished the concert with tears hidden behind my sunglasses.

This is always a bitter time of year for me. The fourth of July holiday is the annual reminder of my dads death and the days proceeding it. It brings back to mind my gut wrenching sobs on the drive to Oregon. My panic and disbelief and grief as I parked in the driveway and ran into the house looking for him in his hospital bed. I replay the movie in my head of all the sadness and watch the scenes unfold. And I cry. I still cry and it physically hurts.

I just wish he were here. I really, really, wish.

I miss him and his hugs and how much he would have enjoyed seeing me live my life.

I put on a happy face and never mention my grief. I choose to move forward and not display my pain in the hopes of encouraging the good in life to come. I don't know if this is right or healthy, but it is what I have done to deal with the pain. I know my dad would want me to smile and enjoy all life has to offer and celebrate the joys of the 4th of July with my family.

But, every year after dark on the 4th, I take a quiet tear filled walk by myself and talk to him amongst the stars, booms, and trees. I tell him how much I miss him and how I am hurting and usually I can't talk it hurts so badly but the walk brings me closure and a bit of comfort.

I just really wish he was here.