It has been eight years since you left on September 26, 2013. Not a day goes by that I do not think of you. You are always looking over my shoulder when I chop a carrot, fry an onion, or stir a pot of soup. I see you in every soaring bird and every incandescent sunset. I am sure that feathery clouds placed against a bright blue sky were put there by your hand, not just for me, but for all of us to enjoy.
I know it seems strange to say, but your personality was so large, your love of life so contagious, I sometimes think you are not actually dead. You are just in another state, making art, planning a new adventure, or preparing a delicious meal for a large group of friends. I have finally gotten to the place where I no longer grieve your departure, but rather acknowledge you as ever-present. I do things all the time and imagine that you are weighing in, letting me know that you are proud of me.
For a long time now, I feel like I have hit a wall with my writing. The words don’t flow like they used to. I’m not sure what I am doing wrong. If you were here, you would tell me not to judge myself so harshly. You would tell me to stick with it through the challenges. And I would listen.
You would say don’t give up, Lisa. You can do whatever you set your mind to doing.
You would say let’s go for a bike ride and get some ice cream. Things are always better after ice cream!
Let’s go get some ice cream, Dad. I’ll see you again tomorrow.