It was four years ago yesterday that Dad died, and at last there are moments when I miss him.
I think that’s a sign that my grief has reached acceptance. I’m relieved. It’s good to feel that everything about my father is sorted in my mind.
I felt little grief after he passed. I shed few tears. I could only hope that grief was doing its work.
I think because we knew for months that he was going to pass away, I wrestled through most of my feelings before he actually died.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I will always wish we could have been closer. I tried to build closeness as best I could. But he was either not willing or, more likely, not capable of it.
He was also a hard man, angry, punitive to his sons while he raised us. There are more difficult memories than good ones.
But there is no doubt that he did the best he could. His sons turned out all right.
I wouldn’t mind pouring us a cup of coffee and telling him of all the hard times my family has faced since he died. I know he’d want to hear all about it. He’d also want to tell me exactly how to solve every problem, but finally I see that he knew no other way to express his empathy.
This link takes you to all of the stories I’ve written about my dad.