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last night driving home from visiting my family i decided i am going to try to write every day. even if it’s not profound, even if it’s just a few words scribbled on an old receipt stuffed in my wallet, even if it’s just habit.
i went home to honor my father’s memory by attending the mass we dedicated to him, and anyone else in the family who has died. most of our family was there, my mother made brunch after church and the house felt stuffed full of people, familiar strangers. hours after everyone left i thought about how strange it felt that we didn’t talk about my father once. only the priest, saying our family’s name as we bowed our heads obediently in prayer. ten years later it seems like we should have taken out an old album of photos, or shared stories, or one of those cliche things you do in memorandum. instead we ate, sang happy birthday to my step grandma, and took turns holding the new baby in the family until one by one everyone shuffled home.
after ten years i still think of him all the time, probably more than i ever did when he was alive [or perhaps i am just more aware of it now]. when he got sick we weren’t close, in fact, we were barely speaking. now i speak to him all the time. it’s not that i miss him any less, just differently. strange as it may sound i feel so much closer to him now, but i don’t remember the way his voice sounded. through grief i have been able to forge a new relationship with him, one of raw honesty, openness, and forgiveness. and still, i would give it up in a heartbeat for a shaky relationship at best to have him back with us.
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