My father passed away on Sunday…
I did not especially like my father. He and I never got along. We disagreed on almost everything. I found him unreasonable, overcontrolling, overly critical and narrow-minded; I expect that he found me impractical and rebellious and, yes, unreasonable. We could rarely spend more than a couple of hours in the same room without having an argument about something.
He once spent 15 minutes in the rain trying to figure out why my windshield wipers had jammed. He drove 7 hours one way to pick me up to spend Thanksgiving at home. Last year for Christmas, he somehow found a book I’d never heard of by one of my favorite authors.
So many times I almost told him that I hated him and that I never wanted to see him again, but I never did. I’m glad that I never did. I’m glad that I gave him a hug as I was leaving the last time that I saw him. He was still my father, and I still loved him in spite of everything.
I find it weird that I can go several hours at a time with everything seeming fine; I can have a conversation or watch a TV show, and even laugh. And then I see or hear or think of something that reminds me and start crying again. I keep expecting to hear his voice, or see him come through the door…
My sister told me that the thought that keeps running through her head is who’s going to give her away at her wedding next year. Mine? Mine is a movie line…
Anything I want? I want my father back, you son of a bitch.