February 22nd is Four Years

One morning this week I was making a cup of tea. As I went to pour the water over my tea bag, I suddenly became aware that I needed to call my Dad. It was so real, such a matter-of-fact inclination. Dial 601-3543 and see how he is doing.

Sunday will be four years since my father died.

Four years later it is odd how my body remembers this month, this week, the hours, even when my mind is busy with other things. In the middle of mundane tasks and without a warning comes an idea that can't possibly fit in the present.

The tea bag sank into the steaming water and I stood at the counter with tears falling. I was angry at being caught unawares and completely saddened by the abrupt reminder that Dad is gone.

I miss him.

I adored his laughing blue eyes and the way he would sing me awake in the morning. His Cream-of-Wheat breakfasts and pickle and bologna sandwiche lunches were a feast to me. Over our meals together, he shared stories of growing up during the Depression, why he doesn’t bite his fingernails and all the details about his "triple-tongue" trumpet audition for the army band. He would take me on walks at sunset and talk about politics, religion and the importance of a life dedicated to learning. When I was about 7 or 8, I remember sitting with him in the saddle at the R-Ranch, joining him on road trips and listening to him read outloud to me from the opinion section of the newspaper. In my 20's I would still call him, for anything…how to spell “simultaneous,” at what temperature to bake potatoes, to tell him I arrived home from a college party safe, not to worry, and he could go to sleep now.

On this anniversary of his death, I am thankful for the sweet memories I have of him, but those memories will never take away the deep missng that I carry with me. As far as the phone call, I just hope that next time he wants to talk to me he won't take me so by surprise.