10 years have passed since he left us. 10 years.
And despite what people say, time doesn’t heal everything – it never gets easier, missing someone you love. You just get through it and, over the years, you get used to the ache that remains.
For those of you who didn’t know my Dad, let me tell you a little about him. His name was Lloyd.
He put cookies in his pocket & kept licorice and peppermints in the truck. He didn’t go anywhere without a favorite cap or a little grin on his face. He loved people, but he had a soft spot for children and animals, especially dogs. He taught me where to find Saskatoon berries, to appreciate the land we farmed, to be fearless, to drive a stick shift, to read the sky, and to dance while standing on his toes. He taught me girls could do anything but that it was perfectly OK to look like one, too, and without too much makeup. He taught me that doors should be opened for ladies and that if someone came into the yard and honked they could just keep on driving. He taught me to be helpful, to fix what I could, to re-use what I had, to preserve what was good and to let go what wasn’t. He taught me real men cry, cherish their wives, tickle their children, and are playful, gentle and loyal. Dad loved to dance, kid around, make up silly songs and laugh; most of all, he loved his wife and every single one of us kids and all grand kids and greats, friends, family and neighbors. He was a man of few words. He didn’t need them I suppose. His actions spoke volumes. He showed up.
As much as I long to hear his voice and see his kind face, I continue to be overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for the gift of a kind and loving father. Who gets that? We did. So lucky.
“You’ll get over it…” It’s the clichés that cause the trouble. To lose someone you love is to alter your life for ever. You don’t get over it because ‘it” is the person you loved. The pain stops, there are new people, but the gap never closes. How could it? The particularness of someone who mattered enough to grieve over is not made anodyne by death. This hole in my heart is in the shape of you and no-one else can fit it. Why would I want them to?”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
Who are you missing today?