Poppy

"And the days they linger on
And every night when I'm waiting for
The real possibility that I may meet you in my dreams
Sometimes you're there and you're talking back to me
Come the morning I can swear that you're next to me
And it's okay"

["Come Back", Pearl Jam]

 

His body is gone but his wisdom remains.  

 

I imagine everyone was expecting me to write.  I expected me to write.  I planned to write, in fact.  I thought about it a lot of Friday, as to what I'd write, and how I might feel come Sunday.  I went through a range of emotions.  I considered writing that angry bit I didn't write when he died, with "The Noose" by A Perfect Circle quoted above. I considered re-writing or otherwise re-visiting For My Archer.  Then I read what my brother had written in his blog, and I thought "well, I can't put it any better than that", and all urge to write on Sunday left me.  Instead, I had myself a very typical Sunday.

This past year since my father's death flew by so quickly.  There were many times when I thought of him, even occasions where I sat quietly at work, closing my eyes for a few moments as a sudden, unexpected wave of sadness washed over me in the remembrance that there won't be any new conversations, even if we never did have much to talk about.  There were times at home when I put on that ratty old sweater of his that I kept.  It's joined my mother's signet ring on the list of my most precious possessions.  Sometimes when I sat by the fire, he sprung to mind.  Whenever I'm being handy around the house, I think of him.  Unskilled, untrained, we just make do as best we can.  I think of him most when I'm enjoying "the simple times", as he would have. 

And since I endeavor to make my life simpler as much as possible, I expect I will never stop thinking of him in those times, or missing him when I do.

 

I miss his smile and laugh the most.  In the last several years he was alive I considered it my most important objective when visiting him to make him laugh at least once.  Even a light chuckle was a victory.  A smile was not enough, and when I couldn't get even that, I left feeling disappointed in myself.  It felt a paltry repayment given all he'd done for me over the years, but he was by-and-large a man without hobbies.  He danced and he flirted, and I couldn't really help him much with those, save providing him some origami flowers to dispense to the nurses of the homes where he stayed in his twilight years.

 

I can never and could never pay him back; I will pay it forward as best I can.

 

He is tattooed indelibly upon my heart.

 

And in it.