Dear Dad,
My understanding is that where you are there is no concept of time, so for the sake of clarity (and in case you don’t fully understand just how long you’ve been gone) it’s been 25 years. When you died, it was midway through the first George Bush’s presidency. Yes, there was another. I don’t want to talk about it.
The last time you saw me was when I was twelve, and I'd like to begin by saying I’m sorry about my bangs and for my regrettable Vanilla Ice phase. Your sickness was poorly timed in many ways, and the early 90s were simply not my proudest fashion moments. You’ll be happy to hear that my taste in music has improved. My fashion, maybe not so much.
Did you see a white light when you died? What age are you in heaven? Do you get to meet all the ancestors, even the crazy ones? Is there food? Netflix?
I don’t know what it’s been like for you, but for me it’s been all kinds of crazy. I spent a decade or so making some exceptionally poor decisions, and if you were privy to any of that, I’d like to extend my deepest apologies. What can I say? I was a little girl without a dad, and now that I’m older I can say that I searched for you in a million terrible ways. The good news is that I’m a grown-up now, mostly normal, and relatively unscathed.
I've known you twice as long in death as I did in life, which is to say I’ve had 25 years to take what I knew of you and blend it with what I wanted to know of you, and create this person, this father, that you might not have actually been. Death makes saints of us all, as they say, but no more so than a young father who has left behind a little girl. Missing you became less of a gaping hole and more of a dull ache as the years went by. Less acute, but more far-reaching. Honestly, I don’t care all that much that you weren’t there to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. What keeps me up at night is not knowing how you would feel about Black Lives Matter. Facebook. OJ. The second season of True Detective.
I have two children now. Can you see them? Please tell me you can.
Losing you was such a big,earth-shattering thing, that it left shards of you, of loss, everywhere I went. Everywhere I still go. In that way, you have never been a distant memory to me. You’ve always felt present. Maybe not physically, but essentially.
And I’m lucky for that.
Not lucky for the loss, but lucky for the perspective that loss has given me. Life is short. We aren’t promised a moment of it. My life is richer because I was young and thought I was invincible, and then I watched you die.
Of course, I say all this assuming you are in a magical fairy land with puppies and rainbows and chocolate-dipped strawberries for all eternity.
What’s the deal with Jesus? Purgatory? Do you know these things, or what?
I miss you in so many large and small ways, Dad. Maybe where you are, you already knew that; knew all this. But maybe there, like here, it’s nice to hear things. Even when they’re overdue.
Love,
Me