I’ve spent the last month trying to fill the hole in my life left by my father. It’s not happening of course, but I’m trying. There’s a lot of anger. Anger that he’s gone. Anger that none of my friends are him. Anger at myself for not being there when he died. It’s the kind of directionless anger that can’t possibly do me any good.
There’s regret. There are so many things that I wish I’d asked him about or told him about. Things I wish I’d said. Not the important things, I actually got to say those, but every little thing left unsaid builds up into this horrible ache. This insatiable need to tell him something and knowing that I never can.
Then there’s just plain old sadness. I walk into the house and want so much to see that face looking back at me from his chair. I want to hear him call me and tell me something dumb because now none of it’s dumb. I want to hear him say how dumb Chumlee on Pawn Stars is. I just want one last hug.
The thing that really sends me into a fit of weeping though is that last night I saw him. He was out of it. So out of it he wasn’t aware of much of anything, I told him I’d see him the next day. I kissed him on the forehead and told him I loved him. The last thing he said to me, the last thing he ever said, was a mumbled “I love you too.”