Not really gone

It is coming up to 10 months since he passed away. Somedays I don’t believe it, on other days there is no other truth.

His voice rings in my ears. I ache to feel his soft palm around my hand. Somedays I call out to him, aloud, because if I am really quiet, I think I will hear him answer.

The most important witness to my life. The man I loved the most. The one who taught me nearly everything I know. His signature cologne is tucked in my bedside drawer. Some days I take a whiff and then I am 5 years old, on his lap, he is wearing his crisp suit and white shirt and his green eyes are crinkling with laughter and I am safe and loved and happy and my world is perfect because he is my world.

He will forever be the ache in my heart, the silence in my words, my first best friend, trusted childhood companion and adult confidante. The one who got me, like no else ever will. The one who could relay hard truths with grace and kindness and a complete lack of fear. We were part of an equation and now I will forever be incomplete.

Somedays I cannot breathe when I think of how there is now an empty space where once my larger-than-life father existed.

Somedays I wear the watch he wore the day before he didn’t need one anymore. When I see it tick on my wrist, I roll my eyes, smirk a little and say to death “And that is the best you could do?”

 

 

 

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