Well, Dad, tomorrow will be seven years since you left us, in physical form, anyway. Seven years that I consistently forget, as I reach for the phone on Sunday nights, that you’re not there for me to call you with my “check-in” call. I think of something funny that one of the grandkids said, and again, I think, “Oh, I need to call my dad and tell him about that.” But . . . then I remember . . . and a stab of hurt pierces my heart again, but as the years have passed, as they invariably do, the sharp stab of the emotional knife is just a little bit softer, a little bit less painful . . . and I’ve learned to replace the sting of loss with the memories of laughter . . . your laughter, Dad. I try and remember how you proudly played “Red River Valley” on that darn harmonica that NEVER was in tune, but I clapped for you enthusiastically, never dreaming how little time we had left. I think about fighting you for the sports page on Sunday mornings during my visits home, and how you always won, but then you would come into your tiny kitchen, toss the paper on the table in front of me, and offhandedly remark, “Oh well, you can have it. I’m done already—those damn Suns need a point guard, then maybe they’d have a team.” Oh, Dad, if only you’d lived long enough to watch Steve Nash lead the Suns—how you would have enjoyed that!
Seven years has not changed much, Dad. I still miss you, I miss the “spirited” arguments on the phone, I miss your “backseat driving” during our trips from Superior to Las Vegas for Christmas, but most of all, Dad . . . I miss YOU.
Loving you always,
Your daughter . . . who will always carry her “Daddy’s” love in her heart always . . .
