my dad

the empty thump the heavy bag of his old clothes made when they hit the bottom of the donation bin echoed the thump of my heart the moment i found out he was gone.  

that's the sentence that's been floating through my head since i first thought about writing about the day my dad died. it sounds dramatic but that's because it was. 

i know i'm not the first daughter to lose her father. i wasn't even his only daughter to become fatherless. still, it wasn't something i was prepared for, particularly as i drank my happy hour beer and schemed with a colleague on how i might get my parents to move to vero following their very recent visit.

and then the call.

the heart thump.

the empty.

and my life changed in a heartbeat. 

it didn't make sense. three days before he was in my house helping me blow up balloons for an event. i didn't want my parents to leave. i wish they hadn't. 

the day before, he answered the phone using the same joke we always did when he acted like mom's answering service. we laughed about him getting his money's worth during his golf game that day. he passed the phone to mom. i hope i told him i loved him. i hope he knew how much i meant it. 

and then the call.

it was the worst day of my life. followed by a series of them. 

first the flight to north carolina. he wasn't there to pick me up. having to call friends and family and utter those terrible words. i did it because i didn't want mom to have to do it but i fell apart every time. dropping off the paperwork to the funeral home to be sure he flew with an american flag earned through his service in the air force. driving away imagining him in that plane, alone. fighting to get his medical records. picking them up and seeing the pity in the nurse's eyes. 

writing his obituary. 

picking out the casket. 

seeing him in it. 

feeling uncomfortable in the crowd at the funeral home, searching for his eyes and that knowing look which always gave me comfort, realizing i wouldn't see them or that look again. flying home with the flag that covered his casket, holding on to it as if he was woven into its fibers. 

it went on. a series of days and tasks that felt like torture. some moments i remember with crystal clarity while whole weeks are a blur. somehow a whole year passed. now it's over two and a half years later and i'm finally writing this. 

grief is weird. it never goes away.  it becomes a part of you.

but with time i've realized dad is also a part of me. he always will be. i'm not particularly religious yet i believe he sends signs. sometimes a punchline pops in my head before i have time to think of it myself and i thank him for it. a limo was parked on a sideline of a race. a fly in my house. 

i wish every day that he was still here. that he could still hug me. between his arms were strength, comfort, safety. for a man of few words, his hugs spoke volumes. and for someone who had a quiet presence, his absence is loud. 

i know he would not want me to linger in sadness so i celebrate him whenever and however i can. coffee ice cream, diet dr. pepper, a favorite beer. jokes, flexibility, patience, finding the best shortcut to my destination. enjoying the drive. 

my dad was humble and kind just like the tim mcgraw song i hoped to dance with him at my wedding. something that isn't possible anymore. 

while there are so many moments he won't physically be a part of, i try to be grateful for the memories i do have of my hero, my dad. he may not be woven into that flag but he is entwined with every fiber of my being. 

donating his clothes felt like letting go but it was one way to share his legacy. scattering pieces of his life like breadcrumbs to find our way back to him. 

making the most of my days is the best way to make sure his legacy lives on. 

i hope the best days are yet to come because he will be a part of them. 

i hope i make him proud. 

love you huge, dad.