Time to be real. Last Tuesday was the 3rd anniversary of my dad's death.  

I wanted to write a special blog post about it, or about him, or about the day he died, but everything I wrote seemed wrong-- too personal, or raw, or insincere. Just not right. So I went a week without saying anything.

And I'm still not totally sure what I want to say about it. The actual day seems... anti-climatic.  

Is that weird? It's true though. I didn't do anything in particular to commemorate the day except to try to forget that it was the day. I never really do. The week before and week after are in some ways harder than the actual day. Before, I grow more and more anxious. How am I going to face the day? Will I have to talk about it with anyone? Will anyone else remember? 

After, I feel almost guilty. Should I have done something special?  Do I even want to? Should I have brought it up to Mom, Tommy, Anna? Should I start some kind of tradition so Atticus and Baby 2.0 feel some kind of connection with my dad? Would it even help?

I don't know if there's an ideal way to lose someone, but I know in a lot of ways, things could have been worse. I had a great relationship with my dad. I know he loved me; I know he knew I loved him. More than that--better than that-- I don't wish our relationship had been any different. I saw him the night before he died. The weekend before we went to a movie. We always said "I love you" when we ended a conversation. I would call him anytime I made something especially tasty and describe how good it was to him, and he'd do the same.

I miss that a lot. Silly.

He didn't have a long, painful illness--one day he was healthy and the next day he was dead. There was no drawn-out loss of memory, function, or dignity. 

Still, there are things I wish had happened differently, besides the obvious wish that I wish he hadn't died at all.  

To be truthful, I don't think I can talk about the things I wish were different. It hurts to even think about them, let alone give them to the internet to keep and display forever.  

So last week, I was quiet about the whole matter. Not just here, but in real life too. I mentioned something once to Sean over the weekend and didn't bring it up again. I always feel a little afraid to bring up my dad because I don't trust myself not to cry, and I'm not just a tear up, sniffle, and move on type of crier.  

Oh no.  It's stoicism or brokenhearted sobbing with me.  

And I'll let you in on what might be a secret. I don't cry for my dad. I know my dad is in heaven with the Lord, where there is only peace. No one goes to heaven and says, "Gee, I wish I was somewhere else." 

And I know I'll see him again after I die, too. It's just a long wait. It's hard to think of how long I have to wait.  

When I cry, I cry for me.

I wish I had some great advice or lesson for the end of this post. Or just some easy way to close. But maybe that's fitting-- there's no final closure. When you're heart is slashed by the death of someone you love, the wound never really closes. It just gets easier to live with.