One Year Down, a Lifetime To Go

One year ago, my phone rang. “Dad” flashed across the screen, and I wondered… would I hear his voice on the other end? It was the same thought I had every time he called, and it had been that way for several years.

Usually, I would be greeted with his low voice, saying, “hi Missy.”

But this time the voice on the other end was softer, southern, feminine. And immediately, I knew.

The call was to let me know that he was finally gone. What he wanted for so long had finally happened… but not in the way he had thought it might. Not in the way any of us thought it might. He passed on, in bed, in his house.

He was ready to go, but I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. How could I not have known it was coming? He had prepared me for this for years.

But, much like he taught me, it was the difference between knowledge and knowing. I had to go through it before I could understand the weight, the severity, of the entire situation.

I’ve said a million times, I’m no stranger to death. I’ve written that sentence down so many times that I honestly don’t even know if I’ve shared that sentiment before, or if it just takes up space in my head.

A part of me was (and still is) relieved. Is there some good to come out of this? Of course. He no longer suffers. Suffering is for those of us left behind. He finally got what he wanted. No more pain.

One year, I told myself. I’ll give myself one year of doing whatever I wanted to do… or not do. One year of grieving in whatever way I needed to. Not that the timer is up on that emotion. But I gave myself one solid year to fuck around, and now I need to pick myself up and really move forward.

I know he’s still here. Every so often I’ll hear one of our songs, and I know it’s his way of letting me know he’s still with me, that he’s ok. That I’ll be ok.