One Year Gone: Reflecting and remembering my dad.

One year has passed since my dad died.

Obviously, I know that the arbitrary passage of time has come and gone, but I still can’t fully grasp that you aren’t here. 

Thank you to all our friends and family who have been so supportive to us over the last year. Your love and support has been a candle in the dark. I know he is grateful to you all as well. 

Some days, it feels like it's been a hundred years. Other days, it could have been yesterday.

I’ve thought back to that day so many times. How that morning I didn’t have the faintest idea, and when I did, I certainly didn’t think it would be just a few short hours later. And how everything went that day - it was almost as if you knew when it was time to let go. It might not have gone exactly how you wanted, I’m assuming - but I do hope that the friends encountered that day were comforting to you, a confirming peek into some of those who’d be so much support in the days to come. Frankly, I don’t know if I could put it into words how they helped that night, but I know that if they were a comfort to any of us, that would be enough for you. 

365 sunrises and sunsets. 

How strange it is to me that there are no new photos of you.

The pain is the same. Hurts like hell.

Not a single day has passed where I didn’t think of my dad. I don’t think there were many waking hours where he didn’t cross my mind, even if just for a moment. 

How many times have I wanted to talk to him, ask him a question, share a dumb joke? Infinite. I miss our talks about the firehall, current events, sports, Star Wars, Reddit’s “Am I the Asshole?” and everything and anything else. I miss your laugh.

I don’t know how to live without you, Dad. 

How many times have I asked myself (well, asked you), what would Dad do and/or “talk to me Dad,” (yes, just like talk to me Goose! And in Maverick there’s a parallel of Rooster saying “Talk to me, Dad,” after we hear Maverick say the line.)

Your answers typically haven’t been definite, Dad. Like I wonder what you’d have to say about me needing to wear glasses for using the computer and driving at night (and two different prescriptions at that!) only a few years after laser eye surgery. I think it would be somewhere between a shocked “really?” and “well that’s bullshit.” What would you think about Kenny Pickett? The midterm elections?

I don’t even want to imagine your reaction to learning that your favorite bit from Road House made it way into a Star Wars story…”just be nice, until it's time not to be nice!” Groans and eye rolls wouldn’t be able to tune out your thrilled reaction, knowing how dumb I think that movie is. 

Sometimes, though, I can easily imagine your reactions through an expression or comment, and those moments are typically lighthearted ones and tend to elicit a laugh. 

One imagined conversation, however, was very clear - discussing accepting that my return to firefighting wasn’t happening, turning in my gear, and switching to support member status. “Only you can make that choice. You have to do what you think is right.”  You could relate to accepting that a physical limitation wasn’t going away and that it was time to move forward. And although it was the right choice, it sucked.

But this might be the most mind boggling thing of it - all the things you aren’t here. All the things that still go on, will go on, even though it feels like the world should’ve stopped?

Heart. Forever in our hearts. After you died, I bought a locket that said just that, with a photo with you from when I was about 8 or so. Other than when I was sick with COVID in the early fall, I don’t think it has been off for a full 24 hours. Always there, just like I know you’re always here with me, somewhere (Think: The end of the NYPD Blue episode “The Vision Thing.”)

The Yoda in a fire helmet tattoo! Damn, dude, I wish I had thought of that when you were alive because I know how much you would’ve absolutely loved how that turned out. It is so awesome!

But in memory of you, my Yoda, it is the perfect representation.

There were several movies I didn’t know how I’d react to watching after losing you, but I was actually surprised that did not completely lose it: White Christmas, Return of the Jedi, The Rise of Skywalker (Thanks, Adam Driver), and A Muppet Christmas Carol, to name a few (Concerning the Muppet inclusion, Kermit the Frog/Bob Crachit’s little speech in the “future” where Tiny Tim died. “Life is full of meetings and partings. That is the way of it. I am sure we will not forget Tiny Tim or this first parting among us,” COME ON). There’s one NCIS episode I don’t think I’ve watched that might be rough. But the one thing I cannot even think about watching right now is Angels in the Outfield.  No freaking way. Too much dad stuff, too much cancer. The scenes - especially that one - play in my head

It has been a year of not knowing what to do, Dad. Looking for answers to things I cannot fix. Wondering what you would do, wondering if I would recognize a sign from you. And sometimes, I believe I do. No one can convince me that a bar having Star Wars playing on TV when I went there for dinner on my birthday wasn’t a gift from you - so there’s one.

I ask myself why, time and time again. Why were you taken from us so soon? How could Heaven and God need you more than we do? I know that is selfish, but frankly, I don’t care. We need you. I want my dad. 

Of course, it is a comfort knowing you aren’t in pain anymore. So much pain, pain that was defining and overtaking your days, and it wasn’t you. It wasn’t your life, or the life you wanted. For you to heal and be pain free is all any of us wanted. Unfortunately, it meant letting you go.

Another comfort is thinking of all the people Heaven has reunited you with.

Probably the strangest thing since you’ve been gone would definitely be that goofy dog who you didn’t think even knew how to bark going into protective overdrive and barks and growls at any potential “threat” he perceives. Like the mailman. Every day. The wind. Or into an abyss of nothing outside, as if he’s warning the world to stay away. Like, seriously. Which is not how anyone has taken him because he’s still pathetic. At some point he decided that you weren’t here, so he had to make sure people knew he was this ultimate protector or whatever the hell he thinks he’s doing.

It isn’t lost on me how lucky I am to have had a dad who I miss so damn much. I am beyond thankful to have had such a dad. And the memories last.  One thing I am very grateful for is that there is nothing I regret not having told you. 

Your birthday in November marked the beginning of the end of the “firsts.” I don’t know how we got here. I don’t know how it has been a year. 

Dad…I love and miss you times infinity. I’ve been talking about how hard it is without you here, but I know you still are, here, with us. Always. You live on in us and through us. I see you in the stars and the sunrises.

We’re still on a mission for Mark.