I loved him. I think that deep down he knew. I know that it's unnatural for parents to bury their children, I know it is. But the most unnatural thing I have ever done was bury my father nearly 2 years ago.
It was the day I moved home from my third year of college, the first summer I had spent home since I'd left. And as I followed my mother up our small familiar street, we had to stop. There was no where to go because the fire trucks were blocking the way. Inside the house, was my father. Dead. Dead on the floor of my room. He was 77 and his heart just gave out, I suppose.
My brother and I were born late in his life. I was only 21. Now I am 23 and part of me feels like it is an eternity since he's been gone, and part of me wants to call him right this instant and tell him all about my day. Part of me wonders if I am going crazy... Is it normal that two years later I sometimes can't get out of bed? It looks like I have gone on with my life, but on the inside I still feel frozen.
My therapist and doctors tell me that there is no "right way" to do this. To grieve. But I can't help but feel like I am not doing it right. I want to take back all the fights all the tears. I want back all the laughter, all
the hugs, all the back rubs.
We fought. About some really deep things. And about some really really stupid things. But I could always crawl into his lap. No matter what. Now I don't have a lap to crawl into.
As I think back, I think of all the things he did wrong. And all the things he did right. Like loving me.
I love you daddy. Always.