For some reason I’m dreading the day when the time my dad has been gone exceeds the time I had with him. It seems an illogical benchmark, but still it makes me feel heavy-hearted thinking about it. As if at that point I will lose everything about him forever.
It’s encouraging to know that even though he’s been gone for eight years, it still feels like he’s here. Like he’s still alive and we just live in different cities. He’s here as long as we remember — when we laugh about all the silly shenanigans and share all his ridiculous stories, songs, and Dadisms.
My dad was a weirdo, like me. He laughed easily and he laughed hard. He loved getting a reaction out of people by doing things like eating ‘gross’ food or posing in tropical plants. He danced little jigs in grocery store aisles and ran after us kids spraying bottles of sample perfume. He always preferred to sit at the “kids table” during family gatherings. But my favorite thing about my dad was that he was just unapologetically himself: he never ever put on airs or tried to portray himself as better than anyone else. He never worried about what others thought of him or cared if people stared at him funny for he was always in on the joke. My dad was definitely one-of-a-kind.
Miss you, Dad.