Today marks the 17th anniversary of my father's death. Some years are easier than others, but I have missed him more today than I did in the weeks and months immediately after his death. At eleven years old, I mourned the loss of my dad and a stable family. At 28 years old, I mourn the lost opportunity to know him as a person and for my kids to have known their grandfather.
Today seems to hit harder for a lot of reasons:
- Today was a dreary Sunday, just like on the day he died. I found myself looking at the clock throughout the day, thinking about what I was doing at the same time 17 years ago.
- I've been deep cleaning our office closet the past week. I'm slowly uncovering baby books, my mother's journal, and hundreds of loose photos. All of these objects from my childhood help me piece together what my father was like as a person, but there are many pieces still missing.
- Last night Jesse and I attempted to discuss our opposing religious beliefs and how they will shape our kids' beliefs. I want nothing more than to ask my father about his religious beliefs (or lack thereof) and get his opinion on raising children in the church. I have so many questions.
- James is named after Dad. After James' recent ER visit to get a staple in his head, multiple people have commented about how James resembles Dad, with his looks and rough-and-tumble behavior. This is so bittersweet for me.
- The kids are so lucky to have a great PaPa, but I can't help but think about how much they would be loved by their grandfather. The kids are at such a fun, interactive age. I just wish my dad could know me as a mom and wife and be able to play with his grandkids.