Sorrow you can hold, however desolating, if nobody speaks to you. If they speak, you break down. – Bede Jarrett

It’s in the silence. The incredibly lonely moments in the night when the kids are in bed as I lie awake staring at the ceiling when it pains me. It’s the memories that cut like a knife. Like little razor blades that flash behind my eyelids that cut me deep into my core. I miss you.

I can imagine us sitting around the dining room table playing five-hundred rummy while kicking back a beer discussing the many shenanigans your grandchildren got into today, or you begging me for the millionth time to make one of your favorite sweet treats because I love you as I explain that it isn’t going to happen since you have diabeetus. Sometimes, if I close my eyes and succumb to the silence I swear I can almost smell the sweet scent of your cologne mixed with those nasty Swisher Sweet cigars you used to love so much – a smell that is now both painfully nauseating, but bittersweet.

This is grief. Or my own tormenting version of it, and I can never seem to let go.

Its been seventeen years. Seventeen long years. You’ve been gone almost as long as I had you alive, but the pain is still so real. So cruel. So ripe. So fresh. It’s as if I buried you yesterday.

Its always worse when my night terrors aka flashbacks rear their ugly head again. Its in those moments I become that blubbering, crying, terrified little girl again and just want to crawl into your lap so you can tell me its alright. Your lap never got too small no matter how old I got. I was your little girl, and even now at thirty-seven years old…I suppose I still am. A lost, broken little girl who so desperately needs her daddy. I need my best friend back, and I would give almost anything to have just one more moment to share with you.

As I write this I realize that the people out there probably think that I’m a lunatic for writing to you, but I really don’t care. It makes me feel close to you somehow. You always loved computers and were fascinated by the internet so it only makes sense that I would write to you here rather than random letters piling up in a trunk somewhere as a constant reminder of my pain. And yes, I realize how insane that makes me sound, but this is therapeutic in a sense. Maybe somewhere in the cosmos you are looking down even laughing at me and my silliness.

Oh, that laughter. A beautiful symphony wouldn’t sound as sweet to me right now as to hear that laughter again. I wish I could have bottled it up and shared it with the world. You were so very special, and I can only hope that in your life I let you know that enough.

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