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.