What They Don't Tell You

Today is the second anniversary of my dad's death.  Two years ago he slung a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder and slipped away early, early on the morning of December 29, 2016.  If you choose to, listen to Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson or Waylon Jennings today while drinking a Diet Coke (with lemon, natch) in his honor.

Meanwhile, I spent some time last night thinking about our last coherent conversation.  I went into his room where he lay on the bed, his skin waxy white and already winter cold to the touch.  His eyes were closed.  I took his hand and said, "Dad, I just want to thank you for teaching me how . . . "

His eyes popped open, bright and eager.   "To communicate?"

I laughed and said yes.  That.

I have no idea what I really meant to say in that moment, but I am beyond happy to go with "to communicate" because for my money, no one did that better than my father did.

Here's what they don't tell you.  The second year is harder than the first year because by then you know all the ways there are to miss that person you loved so very, very well.

Here's to you, Dad.