Today is the 14th anniversary of the day I lost my dad. My father would be 67 on September 15, if he was still with us. We lost him on when he was only 53 years old, after he had spent four years of his life battling several conditions and illnesses. At the time, he only had one grandchild. That grandchild is now 15 years old. Since his death, however, he has gained 19 more grandchildren.
You know how they say time heals everything; that’s not true. I was 19 when I lost my dad, and it never gets easier. When I think of all the moments that he has missed, and all the times when I needed him, I start to cry. I know that he has always been there, not physically, but in sprit, but sometimes, it doesn’t seem like it is always enough. He was a great father, and we had a lot of good memories, but I always wish that we had more time to make more. There are times when I dream he is still alive, so I guess that is his way of trying to make up for the time that we can never get back. It could also be his way of saying I am here anytime you need me.
Fourteen years is a long time, but you never forget and you never stop missing the people you love. I know that Dad watches over each of his seven children and, I am sure that he sometimes frowns (that would be my dad), but mostly I know he is proud because despite losing our father when our ages were between 20 and 4 years of age, we still turned out to be decent adults. It is because of him and because we never forgot that values that he instilled in us.
So, here is to another year of missing you, Dad. I suppose that being if missed means being loved, then, it is not all bad.