An Open Letter to my Dad: One Year That You've Been Gone

 

 

Dear Dad,

I never would have imagined a few years ago that I would be writing to you like this, especially at the young age of 23.  It's been a year since you've been "gone", but what does that really mean anyway? 

 

 I think about you every day.  In some ways, you are just as present in my every day life as you were when you were alive, if not more so.  I miss all of the little things you used to do that drove me nuts.  I miss the way you would say, "You look cute, Mol," every time I was dressed up to go out somewhere.  I miss the silent conversations we had, even during your cancer when we would be sitting in a room together, and a million thoughts would be going through both of our minds.  I wish we had had more time.

 

  I think of all of the horrible dads out there that are just fathers...sperm donors...and nothing more.  I think of how great you were.  I was your only kid, but you never made me feel like you needed anymore than me to be happy.  I never felt the way some girls do...that their father would rather have had a son than a daughter.  We played with cars and dolls, you saw chick flicks with me, and had long conversations with me about "Harry Potter" because I found the books too boring to read myself. 

 

 I think the thing that upsets me more than anything about you being gone is that you will never get the chance to be a grandpa.  You would have been one hell of a good papaw, and it almost sickens me to know that my future children will only know you as an old picture in a frame.  I will do everything I can to make them know you better than that.

 

  My eyes are tearing up as I reread the words I am writing because I still miss you as much as I did the day you died.  I honestly cannot believe how strong I was...staying around the clock at White Oaks, holding your hand and talking to you as I sat by your bedside.  I guess I was so numb to the pain at that point that it was hard to feel anything.  I wanted everything to be over because I could see you were in such pain, but I also felt very selfish for wanting it to be over for me too.  It was hard living in limbo, not knowing whether today was the day.  It was difficult to tell you time and time again that it was okay to let go, especially in the late night/early morning right after my birthday.  It hurt to see you not even be able to get up to go to the bathroom, and hearing you say crazy things because you were so completely out of your head. 

 

 When I look back on that short period of time at the end, it really upsets me, but those aren't the things that I remember most.  I remember how much you loved to drive the bus, and all of the times you recorded my theatrical productions, and the way your laugh was both obnoxious and endearing at the same time. 

 

You are not physically with me anymore, but spiritually you are with me now more than ever.  Sometimes I can feel your presence right beside me, but I would give anything to have one last conversation with you, or receive one last hug.  I love you, Daddy, and I know you're in a better place.  I just wish I could still have you here with me sometimes too. 

 

 Like I said though in a card to you last year, I would rather have had 21 (right at 22) years with you as my dad, than 121 (or 122) years with anyone else.  I love you always, Daddy.  See you around if you don't turn square.

Love,
Molly

xoxoxoxoxo