Sometimes I Forget

Sometimes I forget.

Days go by where I forget about the ache that has lodged its way into my heart.  The longing for the things I didn’t even realize I was missing until I couldn’t have them anymore.

Being miles away I sometimes forget that my father is no longer on this earth.  I can’t say he’s not with us because he is, I feel him with me always.  He comes to me in my dreams on occasion and we just hang out – weird situations but comfortingly familiar.  We just carry on with our daily lives in the presence of each other and it’s soothing.  It helps me to breathe and know that he is at peace.

We don’t talk but that is very much the way things were between us.  The only time I have heard his voice was in his searching, trying to find his way to my mother, not understanding he had gone.

We exist in each others company – the path that things took for us, no long conversations about anything personal – he’d always ask about my car or the weather before passing me back to my mom.  We didn’t do too much together through the years that I’d return, dinners and watching television, sitting in front of the stove at peace.  He became a man who puttered, he loved organizing the garage, the shed.  He built things to make something work just a little bit better, to keep the window open or stop the door from squeaking.

He’d spend hours in the garage – neither my mother or I knowing exactly what he was doing but he was happy.  He loved his workshop.

He loved us. 

Loved me.

I know he loved me with all that he had.  He would and did move mountains for me – often times I would forget to notice because it just became the norm.  He dealt with the government for me long after I’d left the country – sorting medical bills and unfiled tax returns, fought and got angry on my behalf when he rarely got worked up for himself.

Though in recent visits we didn’t do much together except just be and how I wished I’d listened more, memorized the stories of his youth that wasn’t who we were.  But we loved.  We loved with everything we had.

And as I sit here and remember, feel the ache in my heart and his love, the way he was ever so proud of his only daughter, I also realize that I am so much a part of him

I putter in my own ways, writing and sewing.   I pick up his hammer and make things, figure out how to put the pieces together and construct something beautiful.  We did do many things together, his actions taught me so much – how to file important papers, how to use power tools or paint.

He sometimes escapes my memory but he often visits my dreams and he’s with me always, in everything I do.  I am a part of him, he lives inside of me and of everyone he loved here on earth.

He loved us with all that he had.