PlazaJen: Passion Knit

I remember being about 7 or 8, and my father, who never quite grasped the concept of treating me like a child, informed me that one day, indeed, he would die. And in his atheist belief, that upon death, there was nothing more. He would be gone. I felt terror, and it must have been evident on my face, as I cried, and told him I didn't want him to die, ever, that I didn't want him to leave me. He was the one who was always there for me, no matter what.

He told me, in a mixture of reassurance and dogged adherence to reality and a promise to never lie to me, that we were all going to die, and he couldn't change that, but that he would do his best to be around for a long, long time.

I wish it could have been more than 32 years, but I did have those years. The memories of this time, two years ago, flooded me last night, and I felt every last nuance of sadness and pain. I used to relive those moments every night; now I think I've learned that I'm not going to actually forget them. They can feel as real and present as if they just happened - the film is etched onto my soul.

But so are the good moments. I'll never stop loving you, Dad. I miss you from the bottom of my heart and I ache from the pain of missing you, sometimes. But there is balance as time moves on and puts more minutes on the other side of that day, June 10, 2006. And so, I add a new label to all this that I put out there: Moving Forward.

Labels: grief, life, love, moving forward