Every once in awhile I'll read a book that makes me think of my dad.
Sometimes it's a character that reminds me of him. Or it's something I think he would have enjoyed. Or hated.
Whatever it is, the ache from wanting to talk to him about it rests in my chest, dull but powerful, and it brings my day to a halt.
I realize I don't often talk about him anymore. Or write about him, rather.
I think it makes some people think I don't miss him as much as everyone else.
Which couldn't be farther from the truth, of course.
But I don't have to voice my missing him out loud for it to be real.
It's palpable in the air around me. Like the warmth of the sun on my skin or the sweet smell of a spring flower, it's there.
Every minute, of every day.
I miss him.
I miss him.
I don't know if it's the book I just finished reading (The Fault in our Stars - it's a YA book, not something I'd ordinarily read but it was quite entertaining.) or the coming of spring, but lately I've been feeling profoundly sad.
I wish that he were here.
But at the same time, I wish people would quit saying things like, "I wish he was here."
Grief is weird.