Walking through the park last week I reflected on everything that’s happened this year …
My Dad’s death, a break-up, endless heartache piled on heartache.
2012, I thought to myself, is the worst year of my life.
Then it struck me – it’s also the last year in my life I’ll ever hug my Dad, or hold his hand, or pray with him, listen to his stories, or laugh with him. It’s the last year I got to ask his advice, or tell him I loved him. It’s the last time the four of us will celebrate Christmas, birthdays or my parents’ anniversary together. It’s the year that our family will have been together in this life.
There will never be a year on earth where I get to be with my Dad again.
Making 2012 the best year of my life, too. The most precious. The last.
It can be both. It is both. Often, when best/worse coexist in one, it means the truth of the experience is deeper than it looks at first glance. 2012 will be the year everything changed forever.
At Christmas, we found out my dad had stage IV lung cancer. By the New Year, I made my resolution to “live with greater emotional openness and vulnerability.”
My Grandma, on my Mom’s side.
I keep missing her.
I keep missing her as in, I’ll think of her, and then realize a piece of my life-puzzle is gone, a piece out of my Christmas can’t be found, error message 404.
We see our future like the definition of a line: it has a definite beginning point, and extends infinitely. Intellectually we know we’ll die one day, but it’s always way out there, both for ourselves and for others we know. It’s difficult to recategorize someone as from now on, only existing in your past.
No memorial is planned. So this is mine.