My dad would have been 82 tomorrow. When he died nearly seven years ago I had no idea how much a part of my life he would become. My entire life and most of his, dad fought depression. His mental illness was diagnosed so many different ways in the end I think we just labeled him as “chronically not a happy man.” But to me, the youngest of four, he will always be “chronically my dad” not in need of changing. I didn’t feel that way when I was younger. I spent my entire youth trying to change him and feeling responsible when he didn’t. It’s kind of a relief now in life to know, he was who he was and he is who he is. My dad.
Dad, or the feeling of dad, I should say, shows up when I do the dishes, walk the dog, scream at the children, watch the rain fall outside. Today he showed up while I was pushing Simon and his friend Andrew on the swings. I desperately wanted to get inside and write my blog but they were having so much fun and simply wanted to swing higher than their little four year old legs could take them. So I pushed. Breathed. And pushed some more. Dad loved being outside. He loved the air, the green grass, pinecones, the smell of the earth. So on this day I will enjoy the cool air and clear skies because tomorrow it may rain. And if it does I will enjoy that too. Dad would want me to.