Dear Dad,

My roommate and I both forgot to check the mail yesterday. When I got home from work today he went out to get Saturday's mail and waiting for me was the check from your finally settled estate. It's been 1 year, 8 months and 22 days since you died and now it's finally finished. I'm sure I don't even have to say how perfect it is that I am getting it on Father's Day. And of course it's not about the amount of money. It's about the fact that this chapter of your post-death business is now closed. I don't have to wait and wonder and call the lawyer and Uncle C or feel like there's this dangling piece, this moment that needs to end but won't resolve itself. I don't know if there's such a thing as complete closure when someone so loved dies. But there has now been closure in this specific area. And I am so grateful for it I don't even think words capture it.

Thank you for your generosity, Dad. And for your love. If I could have you back I would tear the check up in a heartbeat.

I love you,
C.

Dear Dad,

I have to confess, I've been avoiding writing to you. Work got really intense and shitty and I ended up leaving that salon and am now at a new one - happy and loving my work again and feeling really good about life in a lot of ways. And I don't know if it's a coincidence but I've found myself thinking about you a lot less. The way things have been lately, when I feel really low or sad or vulnerable everything about missing you comes rushing to the service. Being in a highly dysfunctional situation at work that was causing me to feel depressed on a regular basis had me thinking about you almost more than I could handle. But now I find you receding into the background a lot more. You're still here, don't get me wrong. I somehow manage to think of you at least once a day. But there's not the same feeling of crashing, overwhelming sadness and desperately missing you. The edges are dulled a little, the waves aren't so tidal. But we all know that today is Father's Day, so naturally you've been creeping into my mind more and more as the week has moved toward Sunday.

I have never been much of a fan of Father's Day. And a lot of that had to do with you. But not because of issues of your parenting. It had more to do with the fact that you were the WORST person to have to shop for in the history of gift giving ever. I swear, I've never met anyone who was more useless at offering up suggestions for gifts that they might like. And what was your usual response when asked what kind of a gift you might like? A package of t-shirts with front pockets for you to put your cigarettes in! Seriously! I mean, sure, it was easy to buy you those and I did way more often than I care to remember. But I like to buy something with some actual meaning or quality for someone I love. Although I won't deny that I didn't heave a sigh of relief when you told me you didn't want me to buy you anymore Father's Day gifts or even send you a card. I remember that you said you didn't think you should get anything because you weren't the best Dad of all times. And I'm sure I said something to placate you or argue the point but I was mostly glad I didn't have to drive myself insane shopping for you for that occasion! That left only your birthday and Christmas. Two shopping events was plenty for a year when it came to you.

This now marks the second Father's Day since you died. And I loathe the holiday even more than I did when I had to shop for it. It's just so much salt on the wound again and again and again. Everything is about Father's Day: a display of hair products for men at the salon, several of the emails in my inbox from mailing lists I am on, Facebook sidebar ads, print ads and TV ads and mail circulars and people all mentioning what they're doing for the day with their living fathers. I just can't wait for it to be the day after tomorrow, you know? But I was thinking that maybe for Father's Day I should start getting a gift. Maybe everyone who has lost their father should. Something to recognize the loss and memorialize the father and maybe just soothe the hurt a little, little bit. I wouldn't even mind a tie - I like ties. Just no t-shirts with front pockets.

Happy Father's Day Dad, I miss you and love so much.
xo C.

Dear Dad,

When it rains it pours, right? I write about memory and then it seems like everything today is reminding me of you. Stupid shit, too. Why can't I just go see a silly action/comedy about real people trying to be super heroes without it having a father die in it? Why does my friend have to call her father right after the movie to let him know about a pending job interview? Why does every fucking thing seem to be about fathers some days??

Oh, and don't even get me started on movies in general. I've always loved watching movies for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is the brief escape from the stress and mundanity of the world around me. But now I often get this weird sinking feeling when I "return" to my regular life from the fantasy vacation of a movie. It's like my brain re-realizes that I'm back in the world you're not in. In a fantasy world you never existed, so I have nothing to lose. But here in the real world it suddenly feels like all loss all of the time. And sometimes it makes me feel a little bit crazy, to tell you the truth. Or, at the very least, really out of sync with everyone around me. I hate how much my moods can volley these days. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and I was so prone to depression. It's like a tidal wave of shadows just crashes over me and everything feels so dark and hopeless. I just wish I could train myself to see it coming so I have time to put on my goggles and nose plugs.

The other day I was reminded of the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and I found myself wondering if I would ever erase anything from my life because it was too painful. And I found myself, just for a moment, wishing I could erase my memories of you. Thinking of how much easier it would be if I never knew you existed so I would never have to miss you like I miss you now. And then I felt horrible immediately - like I had actually visited the man who could make such a thing happened and asked for the procedure. But I didn't. And I wouldn't. Or at least I want to hope that I'm the kind of person who would be strong enough to say no if such a thing were ever offered.

Love,
C.

Dear Dad,

Memory is a tricky thing. I never know how anyone can write a memoir or autobiography and fill it with such detail. I mean, even conversational detail. How does anyone remember so much of their lives so specifically? Do they keep a journal of every second always and forever? I don't think I could do it, Dad, to be honest with you. I find myself confounded by memory these days. As part of my work in therapy and trying to intentionally think of you and your death, I find myself trying to sit quietly and let thoughts and images wash over me. But what I'm having a hard time with is how I seem to be only able to conjure up visual memories of you from when you were sick - thinner than usual, your hair short and your face becoming gaunt; your movements and activities wrapped in pain and difficulty. It's not a mental image I cherish and yet it seems to eclipse so many others.

I know I have photos of you and I can look at them. But trying to conjure up pictures of you in my mind from actual interactions we had before you got sick seems harder and harder. It's like I can only remember seeing you through my own eyes from that time period. The other night I laid in bed deliberately thinking about and started to make myself go through memories of times we had together: The time you took me to my first comic book convention and bought me all 50 issues of the original Spider-Woman series. The time I got so freaked out from late night horror movie previews that I thought someone was breaking into your house and you jumped out of bed stark naked to confront them. The time I tripped and landed on my knees on my Chinese Checkers marbles and you told me I had to "walk it off" to make sure my knees didn't cramp up. The time you helped me pack up my apartment in Brooklyn so I could move to San Francisco and you joked that I should've worked in construction with you because I loved dismantling my old platform bed so much. And the memories kept coming like waves and I fell asleep remembering. But in each instance I couldn't seem to conjure up your face at the time, only the interiors and objects that surrounded us. But maybe this is normal. Maybe this is how memory works. We only remember people's faces and bodies from the moment we most recently saw them. But when I push myself to try this exercise with other people, my theory kind of falls apart.

But maybe that's actually only how memory works in tragedy. The physical changes you went through were more extreme than any I'd seen you go through in my life. You were always comfortingly the same, give or take a longer or shorter haircut. Your dress sense didn't change all that much and you always had the sort of permanent tan and lined face of a man who worked outside building buildings for most of his adult life. When Uncle C. gave me pictures of you from your childhood and teenage years I almost didn't recognize you from the smooth, paler skin of your face. And I don't dislike the memories I have of you from when you were sick. I would hate to have you think that because I know you didn't like me seeing you that way. But I am still going to try to conjure up your face in my mind from the past because I feel like it would be useful to "see" you in the memories I have. But I'm also going to keep reminding myself that it's the feelings those memories conjure for me that are far more important than the pictures in my head.

I love you, Dad,
C.

Dear Dad,

It's like you went away and all the old demons came back to lay beside me at night and hold my hand while I walk down the street. I know it's not a simple matter of one instead of the other, but it suddenly feels like so much work got undone. Like I got to a certain place and then got cannonballed in the gut and found myself much further back then I expected, sitting in a mud puddle of shit that I thought had dried up and faded away.

Apparently one of the stages of grief is anger. I totally believe this. But trying to feel angry at someone who is dead is so fucking unbelievably hard. Trying to engage that anger and deal with it and process it feels like the last thing on a long list of Shit I Would Rather Never Have To Do Ever. But I know it will be dealt with eventually. I just wonder what will be left of my already shredded soul afterward.

I love you anyway, despite the rollercoaster I've been on.
xo C.

Dear Dad,

I miss you so much. I don't know anything else to say right now which is why I haven't written here for awhile. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I could say it one million times a day and it would never diminish the feeling. It would never take away the giant hole left in my life caused by your absence. I keep waiting for someone to tell me what to do without you and no one has the answer. At the very least, could someone give me the acting lessons I need to pretend I know what to do?

I wish I could have you back in my life. I love you so much,
C.

Dear Dad,

Today was a day of revelations. Or maybe revelation, singular. Today I got knocked off of a very unstable, very poorly constructed high horse and landed on my ass on the concrete. Hard. It was jarring, for sure. But also highly necessary. I went to see my therapist after not seeing her since the end of 2008. I was really busy in school last year and not quite swimming in money, which was my main excuse for not seeing her at all in 2009. But I think, or rather know, there was more to it than that. 2009 was pretty much entirely consumed by school. In some ways, I think this was good for me. Only months after your death I found myself making a major change in my life and giving 11 months of my most intense focus to pursuing this new career. I had something to focus on other than the shitty job I left and something that made me feel a great deal of joy, pride and accomplishment as I pursued it. And I was often so exhausted by my long days at school that I would come home, veg out in front of the TV, eat some takeout and go to bed. And while I didn't consciously avoid thinking about you and your death, I wasn't allowing a lot of time to do so either.

In therapy today, I talked a lot about you, naturally. I talked about how no matter what seems to be a struggle for me, it always feels like it's the result of how everything in my life is cloaked in my feelings about your death. It's like a piece of paper you spill a bottle of ink on: the paper is still paper, but it is now saturated and dominated by the presence of the ink. It cannot be a piece of paper separate from the ink anymore. When my therapist asked me to try and sum up the major theme or feeling I have about your death right now I said "Basically, I feel like I am in some kind of denial." I talked about how I logically and intellectually know you are dead. But because so much of our relationship over the last decade was conducted over the phone, it's like my emotions can be tricked into thinking we just haven't talked for a really long time. It hasn't sunk in to the core of my being that you are gone, even though I rationally know you are.

My therapist then said, in a very non-accusatory way, that she feels my year in school, while good in many ways, served to delay my processing and accepting your death in a way I would have if my life didn't take such a major turn away from its ordinary workings. And I knew this all along, really. It was there, hanging out in the corner of my mind holding it's little sign that read "Stop trying to pretend you don't see me over here!" But I kept pretending. When she said those words I felt a physical sensation run through me that only ever happens when someone voices a truth I have been holding inside and trying to ignore. I knew all along that she was right, but having her say that to me really made the connection. We ended the session discussing next steps and making a plan for future sessions where we can begin to "roll up our sleeves and start dealing with this more directly."

One thing I realized though is how much of a major support you were for me in my life. In a way I never realized when you were alive. Or I took it for granted. My relationships with other people since you died have all felt a bit off kilter or confused. I've noticed myself pulling away from people and feeling more vulnerable about how people relate to me in ways I haven't since I used to be more mired in depression when I was younger. But in talking in therapy today I realized that what I've been saying all along is really accurate: the world is different without you in it. And, as a result, my place in the world has changed too. It doesn't feel the same as it did and it probably never will. So now I have to start dealing with all of this more honestly and start figuring out where I belong in this new world. I won't be beating myself up for not getting to this sooner. I think things happened the way they needed to. But my previous coping methods aren't really serving me well anymore, so I need to figure out some new ones. The hard thing is, this would probably be something I'd talk to you about if it were anything else. But I guess I'm still telling you about it here. And that helps a little bit.

I miss you Dad. And love you.
xo C.

Dear Dad,

It's my birthday today. 37 years of being alive on this crazy planet. And entering my 2nd year of you not being alive on this crazy planet. I've come to realize more and more how much I feel your absence when any kind of holiday or occasion arrives. I've been riding this inconsistent wave of sadness over the last few weeks that seems to have gotten more intense the closer I got to my birthday. And it's not like you ever did a ton for me on my bday once I was an adult. But it was that phone call I knew I'd get the weekend before. The funny card I could always count on in my mailbox with some cash or a check and instructions to "blow this on something you don't need". Mom always sends me cards but hers are of the very Mom-ish variety. Lots of scripty handwriting and messages about how proud she is to have a son like me. All of which is very nice. But I always prefered your cards full of verbal puns and goofy cartoon pictures any day. I thought of trying to get her to switch over to sending cards like that but I know they wouldn't fill the void for real.

It's interesting though. I have begun to think more and more of birthdays as a celebration of life than I used to before you died. There seems to be a more resonating signifigance to noting the day I came into being now that someone I love has left this physical plane. Especially when I remember how I was such an ill child and how often I wondered if I'd make it to my next birthday. So I guess I have you to thank for this new insight. Although I'd prefer to be ignorant of it in trade for you still being around.

I remember how you really didn't love celebrating your birthday as you got older. "Just send me a funny card," was always your refrain whenever I prodded you for more gift oriented suggestions. As I move into my late thirties I can understand an element of this for sure. It seems silly to get worked up over a birthday that doesn't end in a 5 or a 0. 37 isn't much of a milestone. Unless we're keeping track of how many years longer I lived than Jesus. But when I think of how 37 years ago I came into the world and you were partially responsible for that, I feel like there is definitely a moment worth celebrating. You gave me life, Dad. And while you're no longer physically part of that life, you are always with me every step of the way. So today I will celebrate you as well, and be thankful that you made it possible for me to live this life I love so much, despite your very pronounced absence.

I love you, Dad,
xo C.

Dear Dad,

Sometimes I have what can only be categorized as mini-panic attacks sometimes when I think of you being dead. It's like I realize I am in the world without you and it suddenly feels like I am standing on the edge of a 100 mile-high cliff in a very strong windstorm. Which is funny, considering it wasn't like I leaned on you a ton to get me through life as an adult. And yet I feel so un-moored without you in the world. It would help, also, if nearly every little thing didn't remind me of you in some way. People often use the phrase "Not a day goes by that I don't think of____________". It was often a phrase I thought was an exaggeration or hyperbolic in some way. But now I really know what they mean. Even if it's just for a few seconds, you seem to cross my mind every day.

One of these moments was when I get an email the other day from Memorials.com asking me to fill out a customer satisfaction survey about my purchase of an urn for you. I have, for some reason, taken to almost always filling out these sorts of surveys lately. Maybe it's because I am in such a service oriented industry that I think it's good to give feedback on such things. At any rate, I filled out the survey, submitted it and was informed I was automatically entered into a drawing to win $250 toward a future purchase from Memorials.com. Which seems horribly morbid, doesn't it? I mean, I know you won't be the only person I ever know that dies, but I'm hoping it isn't something I can make use of soon if I win it. Will it have an expiration date? That seems almost cruel, doesn't it? Or way too high pressure. I suppose I could just upgrade the urn you currently reside in. But that seems tacky at best. But still, despite the morbidly amusing concept of winning the prize, I felt a little irritated with Memorials.com for forcing me to think of you while I checked my email. But I supposed business is business. Even if the business you deal in is death-centric.

I don't want you to think I mind being reminded of you. I don't, honestly. It's just that when my mind comes to you I automatically want to speak with you. It's as if some deeper parts of my brain have not 100% accepted that you can't be reached and still want to try. A deep-seated reflex, really. And one I hope I never lose, to tell the truth. I hope there never comes a time where I think of you and don't wish we could speak.

I love you Dad,
C.

Dear Dad,

Mentioning your death in social situations is such a mixed bag. Sometimes it is uncomfortable because people want to say something sympathetic or empathetic, which is quite sweet and kind, but often makes me want to disappear. It's like I want to be able to say "my Dad died" and then teleport back to my room where no one can say "Oh, I'm so sorry" even though I know they mean it and are being considerate and caring. Other times it can be angering because people often want to do their own teleportation away from the subject. Death is something that most people do not want to discuss. So when it's mentioned it's a "oh please get me out of here now and away from this horribly awkward subject!" type of situation. And I can't blame them, it's no fun. But sometimes it pisses me off that they don't ask when you died or how it happened. I mean, it's a pretty major thing, shouldn't they at least pretend to care?

But sometimes it can be a thing that connects me to another person. Because they have lost someone too. Sometimes a father. Tonight I was in a social situation and I mentioned your death in front of someone I know lost his father when he was quite young. To be honest, I mentioned it on purpose. I am hoping that he and I will get to talk about it eventually. But I am nervous to just say to him "Hey, both of our Dads died, can we talk about this?" Because I feel like it might be good for us to talk to each other, even though there are some major differences surrounding the deaths of our fathers. I guess I just wanted to say it out loud in front of someone who knows what it's like as opposed to in front of people who can just sympathize from a theoretical place. Not that their sympathy isn't genuine, but you know what I mean.

I guess the truth of it is, sometimes I want to talk about your death a lot. For hours. I feel like it's such a difficult subject that so much of it gets locked away inside me. That's part of why I write these virtual letters to you. I know this means I should possibly seek out a support group, but I don't know if I am ready for that scale yet. I have friends that I can sit around with and talk about various subjects for HOURS. But I feel like this is The Subject We Don't Do That With. But I know that's why I brought up your death tonight in front of that specific person. Maybe he will be someone who can talk about it with me. And we can say "death" and "died" and "dead" and not hide behind "passed away" or "lost my/your father". I know those phrases can be good in certain tactful situations, but they usually seem like cop outs to me.

Well, this is not my cheeriest of letters to you by far. And it's a bit disjointed. But see, you showed up in my dream last night and that is always both welcome and throws me out of whack for the day. It makes that low-level hum of grief that's always playing in the background turn up a bit louder and make itself heard. But that doesn't mean you can't be in my dreams tonight if you want to. Because I'd rather have that mental visit than nothing at all.

Goodnight Dad, I love you,
C.

Dear Dad,

It's funny that I haven't told you what the hell I've been up to in the 1 year and nearly 4 months since you died. I kind of went ahead and made some major changes in my life. And, in a way, you had a lot to do with those changes.

As you know I was not happy at the job I had when you were still alive. In fact, I hadn't had a job I was particularly happy with since those jobs I had in high school when working was really fun and it made me feel like an adult and it often involved free movie rentals or all the crappy snack shack food I could possibly ingest. But as an adult, work was always just something I did while I played music on the side figuring, some day, music would take over as my "career". Until I realized I didn't want music to become my career, because the business side of it makes me want to grab an axe and get all hacky and slashy. But I was so into the habit of Just Working even though my last half dozen jobs or so bored me to tears and made me feel like my soul was slowly dying. But during all of this sturm und drang, I would have this recurring fantasy of going to beauty school and learning how to become a hairdresser (or whatever the P.C. term is these days). And yes, I know, I know, how typically gay of your gay son to want to do hair. But I think you had enough evidence in life to know that I am hardly the Typical Gay. Still, that fantasy had been there off and on for about 10 years; ever since I had worked as a paid-under-the-table-and-possibly-illegal-assistant at a hair salon in New York the summer after I finished college. But it kept being a fantasy I quashed thinking I should have done it when I was younger or how I already had a Real Job and how could I make such a drastic change?

But with your mounting illness and all of the stress that brought, work became a place I loathed more and more. In fact, anything that I was not pleased with seemed to magnify in horribleness once it was cast in the long shadow of your deterioration. But as you came to your physical end, I started to think about all of the things you did in your life. And the things you didn't do. I don't want this to seem like I am criticizing you, Dad, because I am not. But I know depression was a major part of your life for a very long time. As was drinking, until I was in my early twenties. And I know there were often things you wanted to pursue that you either avoided for whatever personal reasons or would start and never finish. And here you were, age 67, getting ready to pass away far earlier than you should, and I wondered how many things you might possibly regret not doing. Now, I am not unrealistic, I don't necessarily think everyone can do every little thing they fantasize about doing in their lifetime; there's often not enough actual time, or money or resources to do everything. But I found myself evaluating my own life and wanting to not have those kind of regrets when it came to things I had a real yearning to do. And then that little fantasy of doing hair popped up on my shoulder again. And it wouldn't go away.

So I started researching schools in the area. And I found a really great one. And the next thing I knew, I was interviewing there! And applying! And giving notice at my job HOLY SHIT!! And I was scared. as. fuck. I hadn't been in school since I finished college in 1997. And I for sure was not 24 anymore. But I remembered something you said to me more than once in the last decade or so. Whether it was about me moving to a new city I wanted to live in or recording and going on tour with whatever band I was in at the time, you would say "You got more balls than your old man." Which is exactly how you would phrase such a compliment, and one of the many reasons I loved you. But that phrase, as glib as it may have sounded, always meant so much to me. When I was a kid I know you wanted me to do sports and other manly pursuits. And I wanted to be in plays and draw comics and write stories. I think sometimes I worried that I disappointed you with my less-than-butch ways. But as I grew up and came into my own and pursued the things I loved as an adult, I turned around and you were there to support me at every turn. To encourage me. To believe in what I was doing. And, I think, slightly envying me for not having whatever it was that blocked you from pursuing your dreams.

And it was with that "more balls" attitude that I left the working world I had been comfortable with for so long and plunged headlong into a career path that has been better than any of my fantasies about it could ever be. It's really amazing, Dad, I am so incredibly happy pursuing this; more happy than I ever thought I could possibly be with "work". Except it doesn't feel like work at all. Just something I want to get better and better at every day so I can really shine at it. And yeah, it may not be the most manly of pursuits. But I know you. You might have your reservations at first but then I'd give you your first haircut and you'd be singing a different tune. The next phone call we had would be you asking me what I was working on now, how much was I practicing and when would I be opening my own salon. You always did that: encouraged me and treated me like an actual adult; pushing me to not rest on my laurels and always strive for more. I think, in some ways, you were maybe talking to yourself in those moments too. But the one thing that tinges this all with sadness, is that you aren't here for your first haircut with me. Or you twentieth. But I guess I wouldn't be pursuing this dream if things hadn't happened the way they did. It's bittersweet, to say the least. But I really think this path saved my life in a lot of ways. Or saved me from plummeting into a depression so massive it could have swallowed me whole. Don't get me wrong, there is a lead cloak of sadness that I have to resist being crushed by on most days since you left. But having something that brings me so much joy and pushes me to work harder and harder has been so important in helping me have forward momentum.

And I have you to thank for that. So thank you, Dad, for helping me follow this dream of mine. I hope I make you proud.

So much love,
C.

Oh, Dad,

I think I will never ever encounter a situation where I want money *less* than when it comes from the fact that someone I love has died. Because not only is it tainted with the undeniable loss of someone I would love to have back in exchange for said money, but because it also involves such insane amounts of signing and dating and wrangling and negotiating and dealing with horrible insurance companies who really can't possibly be manned by living beings, just soulless robots who don't care at all about death or loss or grieving. I swear, there is not a penny that makes it worth losing you or worth dealing with these ghouls. I honestly don't know how some people sleep at night, doing such work.

I know you wanted those of us who you left money for to use it for something important or joyful and I have no end of appreciation for that care and generosity; please don't think this is me being ungrateful. But it really is about the worst way to get money I can possibly think of. And making use of it does not make me miss you one iota less.

Love,
C.

Dear Dad,

I ordered the urn just as I promised. It still took a ton of deliberating. In the end I realized that there is no perfect container for your remains because the only perfect container for you was you. But this will have to do, won't it? I decided on one that is made of wood and would hold a photo. Which there are several of to choose from. To be honest, the nicest wood/photo ones are for pets. And while I entertained that notion for a moment because I only have a small portion of your ashes, I just couldn't bring myself to do it. All I would need is for someone to see it and say "Oh, that's the same urn I have the ashes of my dog, Mr. Bootsie Fluffykins in!" Not appropriate in the slightest.

I am going to make myself choose the photo I want to put it in it before it arrives. Because that could turn into another procrastination/avoidance festival and I really am going to hold with my promise.

But this still sucks and this is still so fucking hard to imagine. I just have to keep pretending the ashes are a representation of you and not the remains of you. The latter is basically just too hard to accept.

I love you,
C.

Dear Dad,

I guess a good question to ask is why the hell am I doing this? If there is some way that you can "see" the world you left behind then I hope you would find much better things to do with your time than read a blog. But I really am not doing this because I think you can read it. I'm doing it because I think it will help me cope with not being able to see you or talk to you. Especially talk to you. Because of the geographic distance we had for most of my adult life our relationship often revolved around phone calls. Now some people find a phone call to be impersonal or a poor substitute for face-to-face time. And that can often be true in a lot cases. But not with you. You always gave great phone, Dad. I sometimes think the physical distance made it easier for you to be a bit more open and honest. Not that you couldn't do that in person, but it seemed to make a difference in what you could say to me.

Some of my fondest memories of you are of us talking on the phone. Especially as an adult. I think one benefit of me not growing up in a home with you every day was that it was a little easier for you to see me as an adult once I became one. You would be honest with me in a way that Mom never could. And I appreciated it so much - whether it was in a discussion about relationships, a job I was unhappy with, a living situation or anything. You were caring but truthful and never sugar-coated things just because you were my Dad. I always appreciated that. And I hope you knew it.

But I also have to give credit where credit is due. I was largely inspired to start writing this blog when I read Dawn French's memoirs. (Dawn French is an hilarious English comdienne who I think you'd appreciate; although I know you'd have a hard time with her accent.) She wrote her book in the form of letters to friends, family and loved ones. The bulk of the letters were to her father who committed suicide when she was 19. The letters to him were both funny and heartbreaking; serious and whimsical and everything in between. Reading them was cathartic for me despite how different her life with her father was and how different your death was from his. But it got me thinking that doing something like this could be useful. Because I seem to have these endless amounts of thoughts and emotions about you and your death and I have to do something with them. And maybe, like when I read Dawn French's book, someone will read this and find something helpful or useful in it for them.

But mainly it's something for me. And so far it has actually been good. Maybe it's knowing that I have somewhere to channel my many thoughts/feelings about you. Not that a blog could ever fully contain them or fully assuage them. But it's some sort of forward momentum. And that is the best I can hope for right now. It will still never replace hearing the sound of your voice.

Love,
C.