See You Later

On remembering that we never say goodbye.

Yesterday was my father’s service.

Not a funeral; it wasn’t that formal. More of ceremony-esque gathering for extended family to come together and say… goodbye? That feels so final, even though my brain (for the most part) understands that he’s really not coming back. But with this gathering, and around so many people I see only one every few years or so, it did feel less like time of mourning (although make no mistake, many tears were shed—my phone didn’t even recognize me for face ID this morning I’m so puffy) and more of a chance to do all of the things my dad loved, namely eat, drink, and be with family.

My dad’s favorite necklace is now mine.

This time is also the most overwhelming reminder of everything we have lost with his passing. Being in my dad and step-mom’s home, among their things, without him here is harder than I could have ever imagined. The house feels so quiet and still in ways it would never be with him around, his great booming laugh and endless storytelling floating from room to room like a welcome summer breeze. I look out onto the porch and see the orange Adirondack chairs where he and I would sit in the afternoon and chat—about life, work, boys, travel, friends, family. I keep glancing at them as I walk through the house, baffled that I don’t find him there, barefoot and tanned, drinking a cup of iced tea, waiting for us. How can that be when there’s still so much more I need to tell him—to ask him?

Am I doing this right?

How do I get a mortgage?

Why are some guys like this?