How I Miss My Dad Now
He loved listening to music.
He was an engineer.
And saying “my Dad died when I was 11” rolls off of my tongue in a way that it never has before. It’s been nine years. Time has passed. Things have gotten easier. His death is no longer where my thoughts default when nothing else is distracting me. I don’t think about him every time someone mentions his or her father in conversation. And, I don’t think about him every time someone asks about my own family.
I do think about him though. Every single day. It’s still hard.
I watch a girl dancing on her Dad’s feet and am transported back to days when I used to do the same. My friends don’t understand why I’m suddenly grinning from ear to ear but unable to say a word. It’s because I can hear my four-year-old self saying, “Daaaadd-ddyyyy” through uncontrollable giggles while I struggle to keep balance. It’s because I’m also thinking about how I want my future husband, whomever he might be, to do this with our children. Of course, I’m then reminded that the person I marry will never have had the opportunity to know my Dad.
I think of my Dad when I hear Consuelo Velázquez’s “Bésame Mucho,” Louis Prima’s “Jump Jive An’ Wail,” Dave Matthews Band’s “Ants Marching,” Simon and Garfunkel’s “Cecilia,” or any other seemingly random song. I think of him each time I burn a CD. When the tollbooth takes an extra second to turn green. Every time I pass a Waffle House. And when I turn past a crossword puzzle and see the empty white boxes that he always filled.
Most of the time, the thoughts are fleeting, coming and going throughout the day. Usually, it doesn’t upset me because I’ve grown so used to having the thoughts that bring a smile as well as having those that bring a bit of pain. It has become a part of my daily routine. Still, there are times when I’m hit more intensely.
My Dad’s birthday is on October 17th. That day, my Facebook profile picture changes to one of us together. I do it for myself because there’s something in
He was an engineer.
And saying “my Dad died when I was 11” rolls off of my tongue in a way that it never has before. It’s been nine years. Time has passed. Things have gotten easier. His death is no longer where my thoughts default when nothing else is distracting me. I don’t think about him every time someone mentions his or her father in conversation. And, I don’t think about him every time someone asks about my own family.
I do think about him though. Every single day. It’s still hard.
I watch a girl dancing on her Dad’s feet and am transported back to days when I used to do the same. My friends don’t understand why I’m suddenly grinning from ear to ear but unable to say a word. It’s because I can hear my four-year-old self saying, “Daaaadd-ddyyyy” through uncontrollable giggles while I struggle to keep balance. It’s because I’m also thinking about how I want my future husband, whomever he might be, to do this with our children. Of course, I’m then reminded that the person I marry will never have had the opportunity to know my Dad.
I think of my Dad when I hear Consuelo Velázquez’s “Bésame Mucho,” Louis Prima’s “Jump Jive An’ Wail,” Dave Matthews Band’s “Ants Marching,” Simon and Garfunkel’s “Cecilia,” or any other seemingly random song. I think of him each time I burn a CD. When the tollbooth takes an extra second to turn green. Every time I pass a Waffle House. And when I turn past a crossword puzzle and see the empty white boxes that he always filled.
Most of the time, the thoughts are fleeting, coming and going throughout the day. Usually, it doesn’t upset me because I’ve grown so used to having the thoughts that bring a smile as well as having those that bring a bit of pain. It has become a part of my daily routine. Still, there are times when I’m hit more intensely.
My Dad’s birthday is on October 17th. That day, my Facebook profile picture changes to one of us together. I do it for myself because there’s something in