You’d be 71

I picked roses yesterday from my garden, the last of the season to put on your grave, to sit there and talk to you and yet, I could not get myself there this time. Nine years it’ll be next week since I sat with you during your final breaths. You’d have turned 71 yesterday.

I still hear your voice.

I wonder about us. Frozen in time. I’m the number one girl and the others, they didn’t exist. Before everything got complicated and I flew alone.

I still hear your voice.

I still remember your sitting on my sofa, me trying to fall into that old role again, trying to get you back, back to the days when it was just you and me, back to when I never worried about your love drifting away, back when we sang songs and read books and I was okay just as I was.

Back when I was your daughter, your only daughter, your light in your eye. Back when you were my daddy and my best pal and the only one who called me your only sunshine.

I fucking miss you. That you. I miss all that was lost, before you died and in these years after. I miss having a father.

I’m so mad at you some days, still. For leaving me. For leaving me long before you died, over and over and over.

Are you still there? Are you listening?

Are you part of me as I search for the words to explain this pain in my soul? To explain this hole in my belly where this baby once began? Your grandbaby for 9 whole weeks, he is gone…is he with you? Are you sitting up there with my husband’s father looking after him together?

Please, just say yes.

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