I miss my dad. Specifically at this moment, I miss calling my dad and asking for his take on the things that are happening in my life. I miss his wise council. I miss how he always, always ended his advice with, “But you’re there and I’m here, so you know best.” I adore when my son calls me to help him look at all the different sides of situations happening in his life. I especially enjoying talking with him about what might be underneath his own feelings or behind the actions of others. But I still really miss being able to call my dad.
Tomorrow I will be ten years younger than my dad was when he died. I wonder if my time here will be as short as his or if I’ll hang onto this plane like my mother grasping with gnarled, elderly hands, and a brain no longer in possession of all its faculties. The word “faculties” gets jumbled in my mind with “facilities” causing me to think of living in a house that no longer has all its rooms. I would only have access to the bare necessities. No rooms for large dinner parties or other “extra” events. But aren’t the basics all any of us actually need? We make our own joy. We scatter our own glitter. We twirl our own skirts.
I’ve decided to be grateful for all the pages that get added to the final chapters of my book of life. I hope for my mother’s longevity and my father’s soundness of mind. I’ll throw my own ability to live authentically with wonder into the mix. But, no matter what I’m given, I’ll also do my best to make sure I write as many of the words appearing on those pages as I can.