Losing my father broke my heart…unexpectedly, utterly, almost inexplicably. It was 3 years ago today. I saw the memory come up and I had to count on my fingers, because what is 3 years in the pacing of grief? It’s something, I know, three years marked the first shift of grief for my mother. 

It feels like 5 years, it feels like another lifetime. It no longer feels like yesterday—like a page I can turn back anytime I want, a crisp careful triangle marking the sound of his voice as just a moment ago. I knew I would miss the pain (a lesson from losing my mother), I’d miss the acute disbelief, the brutal reality that two days ago he was a spread of pictures hitting every corner of my life, that I could call or ignore. And then the quiet terrible silence of never hearing or seeing him again.  

He was 87, and though healthy, it means it wasn’t a tragedy, it wasn’t a trauma—it was just a deep deep groove of a heartache, skipping on repeat. 

He wasn’t a typical father, or even really a good one by most metrics. But he was always always on my side, always there, quiet and sure—in his study, by the lake, or in his chair. When he had quelled the monster in him, he was really rather remarkable.  ❤️