My moments of missing my dad come and go in waves, as is expected, I suppose. Some days I think of him every minute of every hour, and others maybe only a few times a day. Sometimes I can go a few days without misery, sometimes a week, and other times I'd rather die than feel the crushing pain of such a loss.
Some days, like today, I find little ways of bringing him back, of feeling him, of making him more real. These days I do something tangible, like wear his shirts, or play his guitar, or, as in today's case, build things.
I strapped on his tool belt, filled it with nails and screws. I used his chop saw, his electric drill, his battery-powered drill, his hammer, and I listened to his favorite CD. I stood on his ladder in that tool belt, hammering nails into 2x6s, humming along to Bill Mallonee and the Vigilantes of Love. "Welcome all you suckers to Suckerville..." Working hard with my hands makes me feel like my dad. Feeling like my dad helps me feel my dad. The pit of my stomach twists and turns and like so many other times, I'm pounded by the incessant silence of his voice that he's really, truly, endlessly gone.
I hate to be so glum. I hate that I can't yet put a smile on my face and be glad for him, where he is, and that even though I had 24 perfect years by his side, I can't for a second be thankful while I'm perseverently wishing him back. I'm not there yet. I pray, pray, pray that someday soon I can banish the cloud of sadness and grow in the light of the Hope which exists as my dad's legacy and love.
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