Sunday, March 29, 2009
It feels so surreal to say that you are dead.
One of the hardest things I've had to do was leave you - so sick - knowing it would be the last time I saw you - and move to Colorado. I left you feeling at peace about our relationship. It has helped that through out my life you have always been open with me - always let me say whatever I needed to say to you.
There is only one thing I never got to say to you.
"Thank you for being my dad."
Thank you for always dropping everything to listen.
Thank you for wearing carpenter pants when I was a little kid and letting me believe that hammer loop was put there just for my grubby little hand... So that I could grasp on and follow you where ever you went. Thank you for only getting mildly annoyed when I would take that hammer out and throw it to the ground every time it dared occupy MY little loop.
Thank you for patiently allowing me to destroy all of your saw blades as I “practiced” being a jeweler as a kid and cut through sheet after sheet of copper in your studio (good thing it was cheap back then).
Thank you for sitting quietly by my side during my first terrifying bouts of depression as a child and continuing to support and love me throughout my adulthood.
Thank you for believing in me.
Thank you for getting the humor in my candor when I didn't give you any excuses and didn't allow any for you.
Thank you for recognizing that I was showing you my love when I refused to show you my sympathy.
Thank you for getting my kids hooked on chocolate at an early age, teaching them how to gather eggs and showing them where "meat" really comes from.
Thank you for loving me enough to allow me to be ME.
Thank you for giving me six beautiful, wonderful siblings and teaching us that, “as long as we have each other, we’ll be ok”.
As I post this, Sawyer sits on my lap – points to your picture on the computer and with a BIG smile on his face says, “Gwampa!!” It breaks my heart that he doesn’t know he will never sit in your lap again – never steal your glasses and giggle slyly as he hides them behind his back… Never run up to you with his arms outstretched, yelling “gwampa!”…
I wonder how I will keep your spirit alive to my boys. What will I tell them about your life?
How will I ever supply them with the same amount of chocolate you had for them - in your pocket - at every visit?
I love you and I miss you. I wish I could pick up the phone and call you right now. It seems wrong that during one of the biggest moments of my life, you aren’t here to philosophize with about it.