Yesterday was a tough day for me.
Five years ago, my father passed away. I still miss him very
much. His absence is felt even more when big events or landmark moments occur
in my life, and I’m unable to share them directly with him.
I know, I know…you’re probably saying to yourself, “He’s
there” or “He knows”…
And while that may be the only comforting words one could
find to say to someone feeling the absence of a loved one, it doesn’t help
much. Regardless of whether or not it’s actually a correct statement in a
factual sense.
And while I’m on the subject of “comforting phrases of
condolence” here’s another…”It gets easier”…or “It will get better”.
This, my friends, is quite simply...
Bullshit.
When you’ve experienced the loss of someone close, it never
gets easier to feel their absence from your life. You will always wish for them
to be there from time to time, and big moments of your life will always be
bittersweet…sometimes painful.
The only thing that becomes easier as time goes on?
Acceptance. Acceptance that the person you are missing is simply not there any more.
You still miss them greatly.
I really miss my dad. Especially in those times of note when
I wish more than anything that he could be there to share in triumph. I miss
his stories. I miss his snarky one-liners, his insanely lurid and downright irreverent jokes, and his
topically irrelevant anecdotes. I miss his hugs, his gentle hand on my shoulder
along with the fatherly squeeze of approval and pride he would give me on the
back of my neck.
I miss the sound of his voice…the calm timbre of excitement
when he was proud, and the stern, quizzical tone when he was concerned.
Over the weekend, my bandmates and I made history…literally.
We achieved something that, for now, has never been achieved by anyone else.
The experience was incredible, unfathomable, and surreal. And while I had
someone dear and special to share it with (my precious wife and one of our daughters, to be specific), having
it occur at the anniversary of my dad’s passing made me feel his absence far
more than usual.
I miss you, Pop. I still love you deeply. Hopefully, you’re
aware of all that I’ve accomplished. Hopefully I’ve made you proud. Over the
weekend, in a place so steeped in history, I helped add to that history. I was
set upon this path in part because you bought me a little guitar when I was six
years old, taught me a few chords, and saw to it that music was a part of my
life. I hope you know how thankful I am. I love you, Pop.
