I am not sure what to fill this empty space with.
There are so many things to say and very few words. The sadness within me is so heavy, so concentrated, when I cry it’s like pushing an orange through a funnel. Besides the pain in my chest, there is the mental exhaustion which has set in and rendered me borderline useless. Giving my kids a bath, taking a shower, heating up water for a cup of tea; things that were done without thought just over a week ago, now seem to require more energy than I can muster in my entire body.
As too many of you know, grief causes physical as well as emotional pain.
And oh the pain.
The one thing that goes through my mind, time and time again, is the thought of my dad the last time I talked to him. It was late, the night before he was killed. Eight hours before he would no longer be here on Earth with us.
His sweet, loving goodbye.
I miss my dad.
I miss his beautiful face. Silver hair. The warm Old Spice aroma of his cheek after a shower on a Sunday afternoon. His (always) patient smile. The gentle strength that filled any room he was in. The twinkle in his eye as he glanced at my mom, the love of his life. I miss his daily words of wisdom. His laugh. Early cups of coffee together. The way he cradled my kids, nieces and nephew in his arms. The way he pulled his car across the bottom of my driveway, sideways, when he came over to help around the house. I miss his mid-afternoon calls to check in. The early Saturday morning calls to request his buddy Cooper be ready “In 10 minutes” so they could go on an all day adventure, usually ending with a can of root beer and some new treasure that Grandpa knew Cooper couldn’t be without.
I miss my dad.
In his life, my dad worked hard, helped everyone, loved unconditionally, accomplished much, gave generously and taught many what it was to be a good person. His life’s celebration was a admirable display of a life well lived.
I loved it more than I hated the untimely manner in which it seemed to come.
Note to You: I do not care if you think I am crazy.
My dad is still here with us. I feel him. I talk to him. I see the signs he sends along the way. This may be the only thing keeping me sane right now. In the first hour I learned of his passing, I begged him not to leave me. Not yet. And he hasn’t.
I was lucky to have 31, almost 32 years, of a childhood. My dad took care of me at every curve in the road. Last Saturday, I became an adult. It was the moment, I feel, my dad had made sure we were well prepared for.
My family is comprised of people I love more than myself. They are my rocks. We will get through this. We will continue to make Dad proud.
The strength I have right now, comes from my family and friends. Your words, kind deeds, hugs, smiles, stories and thoughts. There aren’t better words than “Thank you.”
Yes, I will let my close friends and family cook for us, clean my toilets and fold my under britches. I had no idea that this is what people do for people who are grieving. But I completely understand why and welcome the help.
I love you Dad. I miss you.
GKG, Katy Nagurski, Small Fry