Wow. It's hard for me to believe it's been nine years. Nine years since Josh and I were in San Diego on our first vacation. Nine years since my mom called to tell me my dad had drown in the Yakima River.
It was so surreal. I remember going to the airport and asking if we could get on an earlier flight (we weren't set to leave for two more days) and when the girl at the desk asked what our reason was, I remember just blurting out that my dad had just drown. She quickly looked away and that was just the first of many times I'd shock people with the way my dad died.
We arrived in Seattle and still had a three hour drive home. I just remember thinking, "this can't be happening. He's only 40." Josh and I didn't talk much on that drive home.
What was there to say?
I wasn't ever extremely close to my dad, but the last year he was alive was the best for our relationship. I got to know him a little more. I got to see why he was so popular in our town. He was just a nice guy. Friendly to everyone.
And right now, as I write this, I'm mad. And I probably shouldn't be. There's no point in it. None. Being mad won't bring him back. But I'm mad anyway. Mad that he's dead. Mad that he wasn't there during some of the roughest years of my life. Mad that he didn't get to be there when Sugar was born. Mad that he didn't get to be here a couple of months ago when Spice was born. It just doesn't seem fair that he never got to meet his granddaughters.
I know, life isn't fair.
I hate that I still have days where it feels like the morning after it happened. I wake up and instantly remember...he's not here. And won't be again.
A few weeks ago I saw a man that looked exactly like my dad from the back.
I gasped. Literally, gasped. He had the same build, same bushy hair under his hat, same broad shoulders. It was the weirdest feeling. I was happy and sad all at the same time. I can't even explain it.
The cemetery where my dad is buried is not even half a mile from my house, yet I can count on one hand how many times in nine years I've been there. His headstone is there. He's not. So, I never see a point in going. But the part of me that wishes I had my dad to talk to when I've had a bad day or just had a baby, yeah, she wants to go sit and talk to that headstone.
I never have. But I think about it.
Often.
I miss him so much. Oh, how I miss him. I used to pray that the Lord would give me just one more day. Just one. To see him. To hug him. To hear his infectious laugh. To call him Dad, since I never did. I called him Mark. Man, how I regret that.
He was really great. I just don't know of a better word to describe him.
After nine years, I still miss him as much as I did on July 24, 1999.
