Today marks six months since my dad died. I’d been thinking about him a lot over the weekend, because that was the time I was supposed to visit him. We’d made the plans before he was diagnosed. Since he lived in Palm Desert, I always visited him either in April or October/November, when the weather was more temperate. When we made our plans, April was out because that was the month of my mom’s 90th birthday, but I ended up seeing him in April anyway.
That visit, made in early April, would be the last time I’d see him. While he clearly was sick and had lost a lot of weight, he was still my dad. His attitude was good and he was happy to see me. My uncle, aunt, and several of my cousins were there then as well, and while I was glad to see them, in retrospect I wish I’d had more time alone with my dad. But I’m not terribly bothered by it. I’d planned another trip in May, but he went downhill quickly.
The uncle who visited died in September. I saw him again a few weeks after our visit to Palm Desert (when I was visiting my mom) and had a good talk with him, something that had been really important to my dad.
I’m told the first year after someone dies is the hardest. I have to admit, in a way I don’t want the pain to go away because I feel like then I’ll be letting go of someone I loved very much, and I don’t want to let go. Maybe a few more tears and I’ll be ready for the next stage.
Anyway, here’s to my dad.
Image Credit: Flowers (header) © Caphira Lescante–stock.adobe.com










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