August 3rd marked a year since my Dad died. Initially, I planned to post that day, but we had a family reunion (largely to dull the blow of the anniversary by banding together) and in the end, it felt more important to be fully present there, so I decided to wait. We moved into our new house upon our return from the reunion, so now here it is on Friday, and I'm just posting. Not because the anniversary was anything other than momentous, obviously. There's also a kind of symmetry, since my initial post about his death was August 8th last year, and now it's August 8th again.
It's funny how a year can seem so interminably long and so eye blinkingly short, simultaneously. There is a part of me that feels like, "How has it already been a year?!" And another part of me feels more like, "Holy crap, that was the LONGEST YEAR EVER." It's really hard to put into words, actually. That's about the best I can describe it.
Here's what I know. I remember in those early days, the feeling of being torn - craving some kind of normalcy while fearing the distance from the event of losing my Dad that might result, making me feel somehow less connected to him. Well, overall, normalcy has returned, I guess. It's a different normal, that sucks a little more than the normal that included him did. And certainly, the freshness of the event has subsided. I remember this week last year as a blur of misery. True misery. And certainly life doesn't feel like that anymore. But that doesn't mean I don't still have breakdowns over missing my Dad. It doesn't mean that I don't still talk to him on the regular. It doesn't mean I don't miss him all day, every day. It just means...life goes on. I have two children, I have my family and friends, I have shit to do, and I know above all that he'd want me getting my shit done.
This year has wrought so many amazing things that sometimes it's hard not to feel guilty. I DO feel so very sad about everything he's missed - two more grandchildren for starters - and E's and my family finally moving into a neighborhood just down the street from my sister's - and my job...I could go on. It's hard, sometimes, not to feel guilty about feeling joy. But I resist that impulse, except perhaps in my weakest (usually insomniac) moments, because I know full-well it would just piss him off, royally. He wants me to be happy. This I know with a certainty. And sometimes I feel as though he's actively guiding me. Which makes sense, since he did that while alive.
So, a year later...it still sucks. And life continues.
