I miss you terribly. You died three weeks ago today as sun was spilling over the timberline of the Rocky Mountains. Since then I sit awake at night. Reading or watching bad television or simply staring at the spinning ceiling fan blades as it is spring here in Georgia (is there pollen where you are, and if so, do your sinuses still get aggravated?) and the dank warm air can use a good stirring, now and again. I sit awake waiting. Waiting for you to visit with me. For you tell me that three weeks ago today after 12 hours of not opening your eyes, or speaking or responding beyond a lank squeezing of the hand or twitch of the brow, that in last breath you lingered over us like canopy of radiant light smiling, if only for a sliver of a second, knowing we were with you and wanted nothing more than to keep you physically. Here. Surely, even death angels with all their orders and protocol are equipped with grace enough to have allowed you one last glance at your family asleep at your bedside – the four of us scattered about the hospice suite like ribbons of moonlight.
There is something I need to tell you, only that something eludes me and the faster I chase after those snatches of that something I need to tell you I discover another and then another something until my list of somethings fill a well the size of a black hole in the universe. And so maybe, had you have known, or even if those death angels sent to collect from your broken body a gentle soul had known, of the many somethings left over and feathering in the belly of a daughter needing to be told to a father, you might have been allowed to stay a little while longer. Here.
Daddy, did I mention, I miss you terribly. You died three weeks ago today as sun…