One Year

Dear Dad,

1 year.
12 months.
52 weeks.
365 days.
8,760 hours.
525,600 minutes.

That's how long I've missed you. I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that death isn't the end, that 

you're still somewhere, waiting, but that doesn't mean I don't miss you just the same. I can't count how many times I've wanted to call you, to talk to you or ask you a question or for advice. I've seen so many movies I wanted to take you to because I thought you'd like them. I've heard jokes I knew you'd enjoy and wanted to tell you just to hear your laugh. I've held my grandbabies, your great-grandbabies, and wished so much that they could know you. My daughter married, wearing your wedding ring on her right hand, and I so much would have preferred that it was on your hand, holding her hand, instead. Every time I hear "Home on the Range" I wish it was you singing it.

I've been to the cemetery where your body rests, but it isn't you. You're not there. I know you're so much better, happier now. I know your pain is finally gone. I'm glad. I'm so very happy you're free of the misery that your life became at the end. And still, selfishly, I want you back.

I miss you.

I love you.