He’s been four for well over two months, yet somehow it seemed to slap me in the face yesterday.
A cold crept over my body and the tightness in my chest choked all the breath out of my lungs.
Every time I think I’ve reached some acceptance with my father’s death, that I’ve passed every milestone I have to deal with, another jumps out of a shadow and scares me speechless.
I mean, I knew he was going to be four. I’m quite aware that I was four when my father passed away. But I hadn’t given it a second thought. Now here I am, suffocating again at the thought of my sweet boy growing up without me.
I stared at my WonderBug as he fell asleep.
Please please please know how much I love you.
Last night my husband was putting Em to bed and told me he was overcome all of a sudden with a vision of my father putting me to bed. He has this nightly ritual with her. He lays her down, rubs her back, her face, her head and then he covers her with a blanket. My eyes welled up as he talked of understanding how much my dad must have loved me.
I know he did. It’s evident in pictures and stories.
But I wish he was here – to hold his grandkids, to tell them stories, to wrestle and tumble and giggle and play. I wish he was here for me, for my mom, for my sister, for my grandmother.
I miss him.