On Sunday, it will be the third Father’s Day I’ve spent without you - without you here. I never imagined you could die so suddenly, that you were as sick as you were with cancer, but - you did die, and my head knows it was a blessing you didn’t suffer any longer than you did, but me and my heart miss you every day.
I’m sorry, so sorry, that I haven’t grieved you honorably, since you died. I turned to drinking to try to take some of the pain away, but I know now that the only way out of this grief is through it - sober. Truth be told, I don’t think I’ll ever be done grieving you, and that’s ok - timelines don’t apply to the enormity of this loss… Already, though, only after 2 years, the sharp edges of my grief are also turning into gratitude for you, turning into smiles when I think about you and something you would have done or said.
Help me to be more like you - your quiet, solid, dependable strength. Remember when you gave up cigarettes, cold turkey, when you turned 50 - and didn’t tell a soul, just stopped smoking and started running? Until we all clued in? I don’t know what kind of inner dialogue or turbulence you went through when you kicked that habit, but it never showed.
On Sunday, I’ll probably cry, probably want to drink, but please let me find some of your silent strength and courage in my own genetic material and do you proud instead. I wish I could give you one of the long-sleeved t-shirts you loved and something homemade to eat, but I can’t. So I will give you a sober day. I will spend it with you, and talk to you, and cry if I need to, and likely laugh and smile too. Help me to grieve you, and to go on living too, just as I know you would want me to.
Thank you for being the best Dad on the planet - for me.