Hey pops.
It’s been a while since I wrote anything to you, but I’ve worked hard to get to a place where I can miss you without falling apart every time, and Father’s Day seems as good a time as any to try again. Some days, four years feels like ten, and other days it feels like it’s only been hours since you left us. The hard part about loving someone is knowing the pain that inevitably comes with it. I hated watching you hurt. One treatment after another for six years that slowly destroyed your body also destroyed my heart. Some days I’m angry because I wanted you to be healed so badly. I wanted you to watch my babies grow up and graduate. I wanted to call you when I got my first teaching job because I know you would have been so proud. But I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t want you back if it meant you had to suffer like that again, but what I wouldn’t give for just one more hug, or one more talk to get me through these incredibly difficult days, dad. I didn’t know just how much I needed you until you weren’t there. I miss you, even more today than I did that horrible night four years ago. I didn’t just lose my dad that day. I lost a best friend. My two-stepping partner. My birthday buddy. And the one person on this earth who appreciated my ridiculous jokes. Father’s Day was always one of my favorites—a day to celebrate you and the amazing legacy you created. Now it’s bittersweet and always brings an aching reminder that I only have memories to celebrate. But this year I’m going to use it to tell you what an honor it is to be your daughter.
You were such an easy person to love, dad. Your quiet humor, your compassionate heart, and your ability to forgive so quickly were all qualities that I admire. Some of my favorite memories are of the road trips where I sat up front and kept you company, singing along to Chicago and eating tons of snacks so you could stay focused (and because we both just really liked snacks.) Your giant fingers would drum the steering wheel or the dashboard until it drove mom crazy, and then you’d play all the notes to the songs on your invisible saxophone, which seemed to travel with you everywhere you went. I also loved listening to you play the piano or hum whatever tune was in your head while you went about your day. I often think your life was written in music notes and that your biography wouldn’t be a book, but a song. I just wish I could hear it.
Of course, even the quietest people have their limits. Your usual serene demeanor was easily disrupted by your outrage at the refs during any and every Cowboys game, or your hilarious dance whenever they finally scored. Whenever I’m worried that I disappointed you, I remember that the Cowboys disappointed you ten times more often and it brings some relief. I also recall you yelling at the players during many baseball games and wondered what it is about sports that brings out the crazy in everyone—even someone like you. But even then, dad, you were the best man I knew. You loved, protected, and provided everything for our family. You worked night shifts while going to college part time for many years just to give us a better life, and you sacrificed so much sleep to ensure you were at every school event for the four of us. I may not have appreciated it fully when I was 12, but you better believe that I remember and am humbled by it now.
And just when I thought you couldn’t be loved more, you became a grandfather—a job you were clearly created to fill. You have 7 grandchildren who love you as much as I do, including one little blonde girl with adorable curls who had you wrapped around her pretty little finger. It was amazing to watch my six-year-old go up to her Papa and say, “Can we just sit and talk?” And you did. For hours. Ella cherished her time with you, and I am grateful you gave it so willingly. Those moments will mean more to her than all the gifts and trips ever did.
I could write a book about all the reasons I love and miss you, pops. But for now, this covers the basics. You are, and will forever be, my hero. I love you, and I know your Father’s Day in heaven will be sweeter than any we could give you here on earth.
Love,
Becky