Tomorrow will mark two years since we lost Dad.
Time has a way of fooling me anymore. I feel like we've been without him -- without both of them -- for so long, and I feel like he just walked out the door a few minutes ago. It's strange, really.
Two years ago it was so cold; there was ice on his bedroom windows, the wind rattling them and blowing the curtains. We all spent hours and days with him there in his room, doing the best we could. I've always hoped it was good enough.
I think this is how Dad lived his life: doing the best he could, hoping it was good enough. He knew where he fell short (something not everyone can say) but rarely apologized for it, a product of his generation. He worked hard and did not part easily with his money but was generous with the people he loved. And you knew you were loved, although those words rarely came from him. He was heartbroken when Mom died, never ever the same. I honestly believe that's what killed him, not the cancer.
At the end of the day, I think Dad just wanted to make sure his family was OK. Well Dad, we're OK. Your three kids, who on the face of things may not seem to be all that much alike, have closed ranks. We're still in it together, still bickering, still watching out for each other, still meeting for birthdays and Sunday dinners and Christmas. It's not the same, but it's good. Better than most.
Thanks for that, Dad, and for all the rest that we never realized mattered until it was gone. We miss you.