Dear Dad,
I hope you know that I love you infinitely and that I think about you every day. I miss you more than words could describe; every time I try to explain how I feel about this loss, all my sentences come out clumsy and messily. They feel like false. I reassure people that I have moved on from your death so that they don't feel uncomfortable; I don't want them to feel pressured into pitying me. I don't want pity nor for anyone to try and make me like a human again.
I lost a huge part of myself when you died and it seems like I have been searching to get it back for ages. I was just 15 at the time so I found myself getting to know you through the objects and the people you left behind. It was then that I fully realized how much value we place on material things in this world. It seems that the people around you, Dad, were much more concerned with your life insurance, your salary and your taxes instead of your kindness, humility or your wit. You were so much more than a Social Security number; you knew that we as humans are not meant to simply pay bills and die.
I can only hope that I can embody your adventurous spirit and live life as fearlessly as you did.
When you died, I had a difficult time dealing with the idea that God existed. I was not sure what the purpose of God taking you away from me was and I was desperate to find out why. I went to priests, to pastors, to counselors but none of them had an answer for me. There was this great black void I could feel nesting inside of me. I tried to block it out, I tried to run from it but these kinds of things always catch up to you. When we sprinkled your ashes on that cold Michigan day, by the church where you and mom got married, I couldn't hep but think you were drifting away from us; as your ashes blew by us, it solidified you being gone.
In November, it will have been four years since your passing. I will take the day off from school as I always do. I will put on your favorite records and wear your flannel shirt that I swear still smells like your cologne. I don't cry or mourn anymore, really. Tears become tiresome after a while. I'm through with beating myself black and blue trying to figure out why it was your time to go. I won't call it acceptance because I don't think you ever truly "accept" the death of someone you love; you push forward because it is best for you and for them. So on November 25th I'll open my window to let the sun shine through to remind myself there is always a light and you're mine, Dad.
All of my love,
Danielle
