Dear Dad

Here are the things I remember about you:

• The time you surprised me by ordering donuts from Aunt Pat's bakery when we all were together for Alvin's funeral.
• The time you surprised me at Hickory Park when I was there with the student council in high school. You sent a sundae to my table and I had no idea what was going on. Then I sat with you and had lunch. It was an awesome surprise. 
• When you first taught me to drive a stick-shift. And how you looked sitting in the passenger seat!!!
• When you made me dig the 2 ft. deep trench that was 20 feet long through clay and rocks. And how much it sucked but felt so accomplishing.
• Riding your motorcycle on really beautiful summer days.  And taking off our helmets when Mom was out of sight.
• Roasting marshmallows with you and mom out back. 
• Cleaning the summer house for my first "boy/girl" party in 7th grade. 
• How proud you were of me when I was crowned Homecoming Queen.
• How much you loved Eric and the fact that I had found a man so similar to you. 
• You always blamed my friends for the garage door never being shut. Then years later we finally found out that it was due to a faulty wheel. 
• When it was really cold outside and you'd call me to throw a glass of hot water into the air. 
• When we'd talk about teaching. 
• Coming home on Sunday nights from working at the mall to the smell of something being grilled. It was always REALLY good!
• The face you'd make when you got excited. 
• The one and only time I saw you drink too much and you ended up sitting on the living room floor propped up against the couch telling jokes for an hour with Eric. 
• The first time you told me you loved me and were proud of me after I left for Drake.
• How you never gave up on me when I didn't do well in college. 
• When you tricked me into thinking the hutch you were making Eric and I for our wedding was really for some friends in Minnesota.
• How you laughed and laughed at the fact that Eric and I bought a snowblower in our last conversation ever.
• How handsome you looked at my wedding. And how it felt to be dancing with my Dad. 

Here are the things I'd like to forget:

• The car in front of us at the moment I got the news was from Nebraska. And it was dark green. 
• It was a beautiful day in the beginning of February and the sun was just beginning to set. 
• The sight of you laying on the emergency room table with a tube still in your throat.
• The feeling of floating and not having the ability to think. 
• How to cry. I'd love to forget how to cry because I'm so tired of doing it. 
• What Mom said to you in the emergency room and how incredibly sad she looked.
• All the times I was a horrible daughter. 
• The exact parking spot we were in when I called Allan. 
• The confusion I felt when you wouldn't wake up. 
• The moment Dave took me into his arms when we first walked into the house from the hospital. 
• How calm the nurse was when she told me to pull over. And the sound of my voice thereafter.
• When Allan's voice finally cracked after I told him. 
• When I woke up crying on Saturday morning and couldn't really remember sleeping.
• Every day after February 6th. Then I could just live in February 5th. And you'd still be alive. 

I miss you dad.

Dear Dad

I can still hear your voice. And your laugh. As I go through the days, I keep remembering little things I didn't before. I am thankful for that, but I'm also afraid that I might forget them. 

My life has divided itself into the Before and After, with your death being the blurry line. Figuring out how to get through the After is getting easier. My breakdowns have gotten further apart with my tears becoming less debilitating. But I still have those moments. Like the other day when I drove past the road that I pulled onto after the nurse told me the news. Or yesterday, when I realized that at that very moment a week ago, I was at your wake. Or today, while I'm typing this, remembering that at this very moment a week ago, I was burying you. 

I am excited to get back to normal - the After normal. I know it's going to be different, but I think I can handle that. You taught me to handle that.