Dear Dad,

Another season is upon us. The rains are here, the leaves have changed, and it doesn’t seem possible that nine months ago you left this place called planet earth. Nine months is a long time.

The length of a pregnancy which seems like it takes forever.
Grow 4.5 inches of hair.
Watch the Lord of the Rings Trilogy (Extended Edition) 532 times.
Read the Harry Potter series 168 times (on an average of 1.5 weeks per read through of the series).
Boil 36288 rounds of corn on the cob (on an average of 10 minutes per boil).
Get an average night’s rest of 9 hours 672 times.
Watch a butterfly appear from a cocoon after it makes it about 25.2 times.
Watch a reflux reaction react about…eh 6048 times.
Make a batch of moonshine.

Anyhow, I’m not really sure where the past nine months have gone. It seems like each day slides into the next and before I know it another month has gone by.

Pete my grief therapist tells me that everything I’m feeling is completely normal. Don’t rush the process, lean into your feelings, let the grief wash over you like a wave.

I still see you sometimes when I’m shopping in the store, at the bank, or in the city. My heart quickens and I find myself saying dad softly but knowing it’s really not you.

There was an older man at the store who was wearing Aqua Velva – I’d know that smell anywhere. He was standing in the vitamin aisle looking over vitamins. I purposely hung out near him because I just wanted to smell Aqua Velva. My eyes became wet and I felt the warmth of tears cascade down my face as I was smelling your cologne. This kind man was so aware – he turned and looked at me and asked me if I was OK. I nodded and found myself blubbering to this guy and telling him about you, and that you had died in January, and I didn’t get to say goodbye and I apologized for being a big fat hot mess. He smiled and reach down and hugged me Dad. For a second I thought I was hugging you. Then we parted ways and I thanked him for his kindness. I promptly went home and ordered a bottle of Aqua Velva from Amazon.

Now I can smell you anytime.

Some days when I’m cooking before I know it I’m picking up the phone and dialing home to call you to ask you about a recipe I’m trying, and then I realize you’re not there anymore. And I cry.

I’m still heartbroken that I can no longer remember what you sound like.

I miss you referring to me as number one.

It certainly is going to be a shitty Thanksgiving this year without you.

I love you dad. #1