Don't waste your time on me; you're already a voice inside my head (I miss you)...

Dear Dad,
Is it any wonder that I can't sleep? It's that time again. It's time for me to sit up in my bed with my tiny lamp burning next to me and my loving family (feline AND human) blissfully in the land of nod, and pretend that by acknowledging the tremendous pain in my chest from the metaphorical thumb on my lungs that it doesn't hurt the three hundred and sixty-goddamned-four other days in the year. It's kind of like a plea with that giant thumb that, "please, please, please, I'll suffer visibly and audibly and physically aloud and in technicolor if you'll just please, please, please leave me be when I'm done".

This, of course, doesn't work. I am an absolute shit negotiator.

So, another year since the cancer took you, and I wanted to pretend that you are still here, so instead of talking to you like I do every day, I thought I'd write to you and "catch up". There is so much to tell--some of it good, some of it not so good, but all of it vivid.

I am still teaching. I moved to a new school. Did I tell you that? It's a change, for sure; all the classrooms are sparkling and new, and this energy seems to trickle its way into the students. They are amazing, and every day, they made me look forward to getting there if only because I wanted to see what their open minds and curiosity allowed me to learn as we worked together. They filled their informal contractual obligations and took their high-stakes tests and did so well that it took my breath away. If you had lived long enough, you were planning on going into teaching medicine, and I wish we had had the chance to sit down and trade stories about our favorite students (because you know we have them). This is what I was born to do, and, in some ways, you were, too.

...but this is not about that.

James got married this year. After being very cautious and pragmatic as he is wont to do, he realized that he found "the one", and how often does that happen, really? You should have seen him when he saw Kelly come down the aisle. I no longer wonder what the poets talk about; it was written all over his face. They made a tribute to you. Did you hear it?

Charles and Mary, David and Jen, and their respective families continue to bloom and spread joy and love and beauty around them everywhere they go. Lauren? She reminds me a lot of you, actually. She's funny and sharp and articulate, but most of all, she is kind, but you knew that, didn't you?

And then there's Mom. She packed up her life and the 30-plus years she accumulated in the home that you both created and made what was probably the scariest journey of her life. I used to refer to her as Joan of Arc, but these days, she is less a fighter and more an intrepid adventurer. The compass that is family guided her back to Canada, and, though she gets nervous about the decision, she is allowing the needle of the compass to settle. She is home. Her family are all there. Even you are there, in a manner of speaking, and once her journey is over, you'll find each other and rest. You'll both have earned it.

I'm fine, really. I have a good life. My family loves me. Daniel takes better care of me than I sometimes feel I deserve. You'd like him. Remember how you fancied yourself a "tech guy"? Remember how you used to try and "talk shop" with the computer salesmen? You and he would have much to discuss. He would, no doubt, be intimidated by you, but I know that you would secretly love that. You could see for yourself just how patient, generous, gentle, and kind he is. I know you want that for me.

So what do I tell you? I could go on and on and fill bags and boxes and trunks and bureaus with sadness and hollowness and longing and anger that it just isn't fair, but like this letter suggests, you are not gone. I'll see you again at a place where love and warmth cross paths with justness and happiness, and we'll talk about the "big stuff" we only got to broach before you... We'll share stories. We'll compare music. I'll let you meet my cats, for I know they'll get there before me. I'll tell you all about my teaching, and you can describe your medical victories. We'll swap complaints about running. The best part? The best part is that I'll be able to give you the hug I've been keeping to myself for 18 years...

...18 years and counting.

Good night, Dad. I love you...