Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Seven
I've always liked the number seven. It sounds good on the tongue; it is, or was, my sister's favorite number (mine was always eight). But to realize I have been without my darling father for seven years makes me like this number a little less today.
Most days I celebrate all I had with my dad... all the music, love, adventures and laughs. Today I am not celebrating, but instead am feeling rather melancholy as I reflect on what is missing from my life.
Sounds I miss - tea kettles boiling over and whistling rudely in the early morning hours as my starting-to-lose-his-hearing father forgot he put water on for tea. Soon after came the sounds of his slippers shuffling across the kitchen floor. I miss the turning of the paper-thin, crinkly pages of his Bible as he quietly read each morning, sometimes at the table, sometimes in a comfy chair. I even miss the sound of him clearing his throat. I miss his voice. I miss the guitar, which he often noodled around with, unobstrusively, in the background of our lives. That was so 'him,' to be out of the way and yet so present.
Sights I miss - the bathrobe, the slippers, his hands on his guitar or holding a pen as he recorded his thoughts or composed a letter to some lucky person. His little dance when a dance-worthy song came from the stereo. Hats, scarves, coats, socks - anything to keep warm. Baseball. Man, I miss the baseball, the finding of the perfect stick at the beach with which to send rocks flying into the ocean; the playing of catch in the yard and especially when he'd throw one reallysuperhigh to pretend I was catching was a pop fly.
Mostly I miss all that he is missing because he is gone. The weddings, the babies, the books to discuss, the questions I cannot ask him and the answers that will never come. I do not question why he is gone, that part has passed for me, but I still miss him.
Thank you, daddy, for marrying my beautiful mother and for giving me 3 gorgeous sisters, without whom I would not be handling your departure as well as I am. We still sing, we still laugh and we still cry. Our family is alive and well and your spirit is with us. Always.
Love, love, love,
Naomi
Most days I celebrate all I had with my dad... all the music, love, adventures and laughs. Today I am not celebrating, but instead am feeling rather melancholy as I reflect on what is missing from my life.
Sounds I miss - tea kettles boiling over and whistling rudely in the early morning hours as my starting-to-lose-his-hearing father forgot he put water on for tea. Soon after came the sounds of his slippers shuffling across the kitchen floor. I miss the turning of the paper-thin, crinkly pages of his Bible as he quietly read each morning, sometimes at the table, sometimes in a comfy chair. I even miss the sound of him clearing his throat. I miss his voice. I miss the guitar, which he often noodled around with, unobstrusively, in the background of our lives. That was so 'him,' to be out of the way and yet so present.
Sights I miss - the bathrobe, the slippers, his hands on his guitar or holding a pen as he recorded his thoughts or composed a letter to some lucky person. His little dance when a dance-worthy song came from the stereo. Hats, scarves, coats, socks - anything to keep warm. Baseball. Man, I miss the baseball, the finding of the perfect stick at the beach with which to send rocks flying into the ocean; the playing of catch in the yard and especially when he'd throw one reallysuperhigh to pretend I was catching was a pop fly.
Mostly I miss all that he is missing because he is gone. The weddings, the babies, the books to discuss, the questions I cannot ask him and the answers that will never come. I do not question why he is gone, that part has passed for me, but I still miss him.
Thank you, daddy, for marrying my beautiful mother and for giving me 3 gorgeous sisters, without whom I would not be handling your departure as well as I am. We still sing, we still laugh and we still cry. Our family is alive and well and your spirit is with us. Always.
Love, love, love,
Naomi
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