One Year — Missing my Dad

I remember the day I took this picture so well. Dad was crabby and I suggested a walk — something my mom always said would help — and of course it always did. Dad and I walked up and down the block we’d lived on for decades. He stopped every few houses to tell me stories about the people who used to live there — or still did in some cases. I knew just about every story but he carried on — delighting in his memory, “Not bad for a young man!” he said with a smile (he was 94 — or as he would say, “I’m 47 for the second time!”) and again that smile. Dad claimed to be the oldest resident living the longest on the block — he was emphatic about this, raising his index finger as extra oomph to his point — a badge of honor — he loved that house, the neighbors, and Chicago.

My dad died one year ago today — actually at this very moment. I was sitting with him when he died — everything was so quiet and so still and so damn surreal. I was telling him it was OK to go. It had been a week of watching him deteriorate. He wasn’t in any pain but my sister and I were in agony — every day just stuck in limbo — feeling very unprepared and so ready at the same time. At that very moment my sister was sitting under our mom’s tree on the lakefront asking her for some help in getting dad to let go. Mom came through as she always did.

So much change in just a few years — half of my family gone, it still gets me every time. Missing my folks. Missing my house. Missing my hometown. Missing that smile.