I never knew the pain of losing my Dad would cut so deeply. I go for stretches in my busy life working through upsets and all kinds of situations. There's just always something missing; my monthly phonecalls to Dad.
Father's Day just past, and it was a good day. The tears fall hard when I try to vocalize, "Happy Father's Day, Dad. I miss you!"
I remember you, Dad. Your eyes look back at me in the mirror, daily. Thanks for my pretty eyes. Your hat hangs on my wall above a picture of you on one of your last working days. I smile at the thought of you rolling your eyes and blowing a "pff" of air out at my dorkiness. And that's what I miss about you, most. You got me. I may have gotten on your nerves enough for you to say my first and middle name, but you loved me just the same.
You never tried to change me. You didn't force me to try to be someone I'm not. You loved me as I was.
I really miss your long, bear hugs and hearing you say, "I love you, Barbara."
Every day I miss you. Everyday seems so much farther away from you.
Nothing makes this pain any easier. There's no medicine for it, and the only thing I can seem to do is cry hard until I stop.
The tears are stinging my cheeks, and my eyes are puffy.
I tried to continue the monthly calls to your widow, but it feels like I'm a nuisance.
I didn't realize the hurt, the devastation of loss until you stopped living.
This kind of pain doesn't end.
Father's Day just past, and it was a good day. The tears fall hard when I try to vocalize, "Happy Father's Day, Dad. I miss you!"
I remember you, Dad. Your eyes look back at me in the mirror, daily. Thanks for my pretty eyes. Your hat hangs on my wall above a picture of you on one of your last working days. I smile at the thought of you rolling your eyes and blowing a "pff" of air out at my dorkiness. And that's what I miss about you, most. You got me. I may have gotten on your nerves enough for you to say my first and middle name, but you loved me just the same.
You never tried to change me. You didn't force me to try to be someone I'm not. You loved me as I was.
I really miss your long, bear hugs and hearing you say, "I love you, Barbara."
Every day I miss you. Everyday seems so much farther away from you.
Nothing makes this pain any easier. There's no medicine for it, and the only thing I can seem to do is cry hard until I stop.
The tears are stinging my cheeks, and my eyes are puffy.
I tried to continue the monthly calls to your widow, but it feels like I'm a nuisance.
I didn't realize the hurt, the devastation of loss until you stopped living.
This kind of pain doesn't end.
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