Wednesday, December 7, 2011
I'm sad today. It is the one year anniversary of my Dad dying. I was with him on the day he died and I got to say goodbye but it still feels like he really isn't gone. Like he's still around and I just haven't talked to him or seen him in a while. Does that feeling ever go away?
This morning I went to McDonalds for an egg mcmuffin, my Dad's hidden guilty pleasure. I only knew about it because one day a few years ago, I was in his car and the little yellow balled-up wrappers were everywhere, along with those two-can-dine-for coupons you get in the mail. I asked him about it and he dismissed it, saying that its the only thing he likes there and he sometimes gets them on the way to work. This from a man who had a wine cellar that rivalled the fanciest restaurant in town.
This morning, I also tore an article out of the newspaper that I want to save for later. This is something else my Dad did and something that I do, too. Not because I want to be like my Dad, but because I am like my Dad. What am I saving it for? I'm not sure. My Dad tore out articles about things he wanted to do: like a new play or restaurant. He usually went to them.
And so today, I will think about all other little things that remind me of you. I will get churrasco chicken for dinner. I will think about how you used to give us jujubes when we had braces when Maya is at the orthodontist. When I go running, I will remember the ridiculous outfits you used to wear when you went running, including the towel wrapped around your neck a la Rocky Balboa. I see you in my children when they make wise decisions, decisions that reflect the right thing to do and not the easy thing. The choices they make are the things you would encourage me to do but I never felt brave enough for. Thank you for guiding them in making those decisions. They have become so wise and brave in the past year and I know it is because you have been looking out for them.
Tonight I will read fashion magazines and watch crappy TV and clip coupons to be used at a time that absolutely humiliates my kids. Just like you.
I miss you.