It comes every year, this day marking my father's death. As the calendar turns from June, as 4th of July preparations are undertaken, I can't help but look to the 8th and to feel sadness.
Oh, sure, the pain and sadness and tears are far less than they were in the beginning. I remember at the time not wanting to have that sadness lessen. It seemed to me that as long as I could maintain being that sad, I still loved him as I had loved him when he was alive. It would be a betrayal to him to ever not be so overwhelmingly sad.
We're not meant to live that way, though. I imagine we can't really continue to live that way. Survival kicks in as time passes. We grow. We age.
Years and years and years of the 8th of July have come and gone. I have nothing remarkable to say, no epiphany to share, no words of wisdom to impart.
I miss you, Dad. I love you, Dad.