Today is just another Tuesday.  Except it is not just another Tuesday.  Today marks the 20^th time another year has rolled around without my dad.  Another year that I mourn for what might have been.  What should have been.

I don’t grieve in the same way I did 20 years ago.  Time has softened my emotions.  Grief that once was sharp and raw has now become dull and scarred over.  Events, smells and sounds can bring back the memories, but they no longer have the power to cripple me as they once did.

Mostly now, I look at Ava and regret that my dad is not around to see this wonderful human being that has his genes running through her veins.  Sometimes she makes a face, and for a second, I see a flash of my dad.  What I would give to see Ava sitting in his lap, eyes wide with excitement as my father told her one of his famous stories.  I wish I could see her giggling with delight as he tickled her the way he once tickled me, as we curled up on our sofa together.  I will never get to relive my childhood with my father through Ava.  My past and my present can never collide.

My biggest regret, the source of most of my sorrow, is that to Ava, my dad will never be more than a concept, an abstract idea.  A faded image in photographs.  She’ll never hear the sound of his voice or know the warmth of his hug.  No matter how much I talk about him, or show her pictures from the past, he will never be as real to her as he is to me.  He won’t be any more real to her than my own maternal grandfather is to me.

My mother’s father died long before I was born.  Although she spoke of him often, he remained a black and white image in a picture to me my entire life.  In his pictures he looked stern and gruff.  But my mother called him “Daddy” and told tales of him playing with her and her siblings.  She spoke about how much he changed after the war.  The war being WWII, and my grandfather having been drafted into Hitler’s army of old men and children toward the end.  In my head I see flickering black and white images, the grainy film of a news reel.  That is all of my grandfather I have.  I never once met him, or even spoke to him.

It pains me that my dad missed out on being a grandfather.  I hate the fact that Ava’s family history will be told through me, missing a generation of information that my father would have provided.  There is a piece of my family’s fabric that is missing.  Today I remember.  I mourn.  Tomorrow, I begin weaving another portion.

I miss you, Daddy.

I remember it was gray.  It was January, after all.  I don’t remember if it was cold.  I remember the minister speaking in generalities about my dad.  He didn’t really know my dad all that well, seeing as how my dad was not a churchgoer.  He simply hadn’t been able.

The one memory that stands out clearly from the day we buried my father was that I prayed hard to just get through the day without breaking down.  So many eyes were upon my mother and me.  Everyone looking at us, whispering in hushed tones.

I remember scattered fragments of the days between when he passed and the day of the funeral.  Buying dresses to wear.  Picking out his suit, fending off a meddling grandmother and aunt who wanted to do things their way.  Sitting in the funeral home, selecting a casket and flowers for the top.  Always my mother looking at me and asking “What do you think?”  What do I think?  I think I’m 16 years old, I shouldn’t be doing this.

But I was.  I was making arrangements to bury my father.  Making phone calls.  Taking phone calls.  One in particular stands out.

My father in his last few years had begun research into his father’s side of the family.  A side we knew almost next to nothing about.   To his delight, he discovered we had cousins in Texas, and one of them was doing a genealogy trace as well.  They spoke on the phone on numerous occasions and the Texas contingent even traveled to Mississippi to meet my dad.  I remember my cousin calling a few days before the funeral asking to speak to my dad.  I had to tell her he had passed away.  She was so shocked she hung up on me.  She called back a few minutes later, apologized for hanging up on me, and said they were on the way here.  They must have broken many speed limits along the way, but they made it to Mississippi in time for the funeral.

So many people with that same look in their eyes.  Sad.  Unsure of what to say to us.  Classmates, whose parents pushed them to say something, mumbling “Sorry”.  So many “I’m sorrys”.  Too many.  What do you say to that?  “Thank you?”  I hate that part of loss.  People tip-toeing around you, you feeling like every word, action, expression is being watched, judged.  If you dare laugh at something, you’re not appropriately grieving.  If you cry too much, you’re overreacting.

After the funeral we all gathered at my grandmother’s house.  She was in her element, holding court.  You had to know my grandmother to really understand. Honestly, that’s whole separate post.  But needless to say, she thrived on drama, and the bigger, the better.

One of my cousins came over to fix one my grandmother’s space heaters.  Despite the fact that he and his wife and son lived next to us for five years, and my parents helped him out on numerous occasions, he did not come to the funeral. He had nothing to say, except that he could not understand why we were all so upset, since we knew this day was coming.  I was, and still am, speechless that someone could utter words so unfeeling.  I have not spoken to him since that day. I don’t know that I ever will.

Life for me, of course, marched on.  I went back to school, feeling more shunned and out of place than ever.  Now, not only was I the poor fat kid.  I was the poor fat kid whose dad died.

Once my dad passed away, apparently so did any obligation his family felt towards my mother and me.  We were isolated, with the exception of two of my dad’s sisters, both of whom lived out of town.

I graduated high school the following year, with only my mother and a great uncle in the audience to watch.  The first of so many events to happen with out my dad present.

I have a good life now.  I’m in my 30s.  I’m married and I finally have a family of my own, with the birth of Ava last June.  I sometimes wonder if I would have the life I have now, had he lived.   I know in my heart I wouldn’t.  I would not have made the stupid choices I made at age 19, getting married to someone old enough to be my father.  I wouldn’t have ended up divorced 8 months later.  I wouldn’t have charged headlong into yet another relationship with someone once again 20 + years my senior only to end up alone again.  I wouldn’t have purchased that computer that led me to a fan group where I met the man I am married to today.  I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to pick up and move across country.  I might have had kids, but I wouldn’t have my Avacakes.

I know my life thus far is what it is,  in large part to my dad’s passing.  The choices I have made, the grief I carry inside me shaped who I was, who I am, and who I will be.

It’s been almost 20 years now.  Dad has been gone longer than I knew him.  The grief has faded.  I no longer think about it every day.  The big events bring to mind the wish that he was still here to be a part of my life in a tangible way.  I know it’s ok to say goodbye.  It’s ok to let go.  And I will do so.  Every day for the rest of my life.