My dad

He was the kind of guy who could strike up a conversation with anyone. He was the person who’d walk in to a restaurant not knowing anyone and leave with a few new friends, most of which he probably beat at pool. He was competitive, but more so with himself. He didn’t want to be bad at anything. Anyone who knew him when he and my mom were together would know he was a great golfer. Apparently he didn’t start out so great, but it pissed him off so he kept working at it and got better. I wonder where I get that from…

He was good at playing cards, good at telling jokes. He had a beautiful deep singing voice and he was actually a pretty good dancer, too. He was a sports fiend and would constantly have some sport on tv—basketball, baseball, football, golf, poker. You name it, he watched it. He loved road-trips and could drive for hours as long as he had coffee and a bag of popcorn. He ate popcorn like it was going out of style. At a basketball game? Popcorn. Watching baseball on tv? Popcorn. Driving to see family? Popcorn.

One part I struggle the most with him not being here is the fact that I missed out on knowing him adult-to-adult. When he died, I was in high school. I was excited I had my license and wanted to go to the home football games or hang out with my friends. We weren’t having big conversations about life at that time. I’d love to ask him the biggest lessons he learned, or what he thinks about politics. I’d love to be able to pick his brain when I have a problem at work or when I need to talk through a coaching situation for my softball team. I hear stories from my siblings and others about how great he was with advice, but I didn’t get to experience that.

One part of grief that kicks our asses the most is guilt. I have guilt that I didn’t show up differently when he was here. But, that’s just silly, isn’t it? I couldn’t fast forward time and be an adult. He was here when I was younger and there was nothing I could do about that. Yet, guilt doesn’t always have logic.

As the years pass, I don’t think the pain changes it’s just more how I move around the pain. It’s a fixture. I know it’s there, my life includes this pain. I still hear his voice, even if it seems further away. I still talk to him. I’ll dream about him when I really need a message from him, the timing is always uncanny. I still have days that I just miss him so big.

As the fall air starts to creep in, my body is reminded of this residual grief, the sensation that is familiar—loss. We lost him in early October in 2005. At this time, 18 years ago, we were spending our last days with him, our last laughs, our last conversations.

18 years. Where the hell did the time go? I guess, in comparing where I am in that grief journey with the loss of my mom, it shocks me how different grief can be, how different in can move through your life. I truly thought when she died I’d “have a handle” on it because “I know grief and I know it well. Me and grief, we are old friends.” I couldn’t have been more wrong. I am a different person now than when I lost my dad. Losing him did make me into who I am.

I’m not as good at card games and definitely not as good at golf. I can’t stand watching poker for the life of me. Playing pool never ends in me winning. But, I do love road-trips. I love making new friends and playing softball. I like making other people laugh. And, every now and then, I get a craving for popcorn.

So dad, as I feel you swirling around me in the cool fall breeze, just know that you are forever missed and forever celebrated.