yeah, so...

writing about my dad feels like a lot of different things, some of them are good, some of them are bad, and some of them are really hard. one thing i don't want, from anyone, any time i write about him, is sympathy. i hate that. never feel sorry for us, for me, for him, for the family. everyone gets dealt a rough hand in life, at some juncture, and no one gets to choose what their rough hand is. you just play your cards with grace and dignity. but no pity, please.

i missed him yesterday. i missed him all day long. i can hear him so clearly, on most days. sometimes, i can smell him. sometimes, he is so close, i feel like if i turned around fast enough, i could catch a glimpse of him. there is a part of me, a little girl part of me, that is sure he lives in the moon, and can hear me when i talk out loud to him. i know that's bizarre and ritualistic, and i should know better, blah blah blah, but i do it anyway. he wasn't a perfecet father. but he was mine. i have this list of questions i would just love to have answers to, but, as with so many questions i have for my father, for G-d, for the universe, those are not for this life.

i am proud to be his child, every single day. i hope i make him proud. i could care less about the big questions, any more. i really just crave the comfort, the little piddly things like "goodnight" and "good morning" and " call us when you get there". it's silly, and it's so self-indulgent to weep over them. but it happens, nonetheless.

mil besos,
rmg