It’s been 365 days since I watched you take your last breath. 366 days since you last hugged my neck and said goodbye.
You would think it gets easier, and in some ways, it does.
But moments still hit where fresh grief takes me under like a wave.
The weight of grief, some days, feels like more than I can bear. The weight of the memories of your decline and suffering overwhelms me sometimes.
I recently found this picture, and I think it sums it up quite well.
I would like to say I handle it gracefully by now, and I do have days of remembering fondly and smiling. But some days I’m so angry.
I hate the phrase “It isn’t fair”...yet it isn’t. You should’ve had more time. There was still so much spirit and passion left in you. You were just a grown-up kid.
I was watching “Last Dance” the other day with Jon about Michael Jordan and his life. He talked about coming out of retirement in the 90's and playing basketball again after the death of his father. He said that he felt "naked" without his father there. That’s a perfect analogy. With that void there, you feel exposed, vulnerable, unprotected. The world as you know it has changed forever and there’s no returning to the safe space of your parent’s love. I’m very blessed to still have my mom in my life, and for that I’m exceedingly grateful. But a part of me is missing for good and that hole will never be filled.
On normal days, I have to be okay. I have to push through and show up. But on July 24th, that day is mine. Mine to miss you. Mine to remember. Mine to cry. I know you wouldn't want that for me, or for Kim. But one of the things you didn't teach me was how to go through life without my dad.
I trust you're walking streets of gold, heckling and laughing, pain- and sorrow-free. That has to be enough.
