Day 933 Emotional Hits

 

This week has certainly had more than its fair share of emotional hits. As we approach the 10th anniversary of my dad’s passing, I find myself in a strange mix of disbelief and reflection. On one hand, it’s hard to believe it’s been that long, and on the other, it feels as though it were just yesterday when he sat at my kitchen table, sharing his stories.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but over the years, we do learn how to live with change. One thing that helps is the memories. I often find myself drawing on the daily conversations and visits we had, keeping his presence alive in my heart.

My dad would visit almost every day, excited to share a new story or some town gossip and always anxious to see his Grand children. On one particular day, he walked in with a handcrafted birdhouse, eager to tell me how talented his friend was who had made it. My dad wasn’t a handyman—he had no woodworking skills at all—but he was always in awe of anyone who did. He couldn’t stop talking about the craftsmanship of the birdhouses his friend made, and he had even bought one for himself. He was thrilled to show it off.

I could always count on my dad for a good story. His tales were never bound by the limitations of truth; they were always larger than life and, often, over the top. That day, he proudly displayed the birdhouse at my kitchen table, both of us blissfully unaware that conversations like that would soon come to an abrupt halt. 

Just a short time later, my dad passed away suddenly one morning from an apparent heart attack. When someone dies so unexpectedly, it leaves the people they’ve left behind struggling to find the right words, to say goodbye as if we could somehow encapsulate a lifetime of love and memories into one final conversation.

Months after his passing, I was contacted by a friend of his—the birdhouse craftsman. He explained that my dad had paid for four more birdhouses, one for each of his children. To honor my dad’s order and wishes, the man had made the birdhouses and wanted to deliver them. He brought them to my house, and I distributed them to my siblings, keeping one for myself.

It was a gesture I’ll never forget. It was typical of my dad, wanting to share something he loved with us. But it was also just like the man who made the birdhouses—someone who respected my dad enough to follow through on his wishes. My dad had that effect on people. He was loved, respected, and to this day closing in on a decade without him, I still run into people who tear up when they talk about how important he was in their lives.

My dad guided people to become teachers, to put children first, to love their community, and to support all that makes America great. He began his career as a history teacher and was always ready to give an impromptu lesson. He was larger than life—perhaps that’s why, even after all these years, he still feels so present in my life.

To this day, my dad remains the only person to ever call me “sweetheart” and most likely ever will. A decade later, how can that be and how can it still make my heart hurt so badly?