I believe I told you a while back that my dad died. About fourteen years now this past July. It’s odd when I think on it. For me he should still be here, loving on our family and relishing in the retirement he worked so hard for. People, and that includes my mom, say that at times they can feel the presence of their loved one. Me, I can’t say I ever have felt that, and it would probably scare me to the end of my wits if I did.
My closest experience of feeling dad’s presence happened the day he died. The waiting room the family congregated in faced into the middle of the hospital. Four towers of buildings made a square and in the middle the mechanical building. Our view was industrial with pipes, billowing steam, hospital rooms and other visitors staring out other waiting rooms. As I sat in that waiting room mourning and praying for the pain to ease, I looked outside the window and a small butterfly flitted and briefly paused at the window. It didn’t stay long just long enough for me to realize that it was a sign that my dad was at peace.
There are days that I ache over missing dads loving presence and his common no sense approach to life. He was laid back (my sister inherited that trait) … so much so it irritated my mother. I remember in my teenage years, mom being a bit high strung and difficult. (Looking back she was high strung and to my teenager know-it-all self, she was just a pain … but… look at me now, dontcha know, how life changed me and my perspective.)
To me my dad loved me in ways that no one else could. I miss him. I can’t say I think of him every day. But I can say, the pain doesn’t kick me in the solar plexus and double me over any more.
I am not looking forward to the day when my mom makes me an orphan and her dying has me bent over in overwhelming grief.
So, today is a good day.
I miss you Poppa.