Dear Dad,
Is there something wrong with me? I know that question is a dangerous one to ask. It invites a world of insults right to my front door, so I think I'll specify. It's that day again. True to form, I have been unable or unwilling to face it until it is technically the day after. Also true to form, I am stuck on the worst merry-go-round of insomnia. While this is not new, what is new is that James is stuck on it now, too. On this anniversary of your...absence (still find it hard to say "death"), there are so many reasons to feel anxious, and for each of these reasons, I comfort myself with the idea, no, the knowledge that you are watching over us, still protecting us from the sidelines like you did when you were alive (you were not one to indulge melodrama, but you had such a matter-of-factness about you that it was nearly impossible to be afraid with you nearby, if only because fear seemed like a silly emotion). I think about that as I am wishing so much that you were here to talk to James about his son. He is a good father, and he is terrified right now. I can't help but think that you would be able to say just the right thing with just the right medical reassurance, just the right inflection, just the right tone of voice, and just the right body language to let James know that of course everything will be okay...as if there weren't really any other possibility. Mom is a great voice of comfort, but you already knew that. That's why you two were so great together. I know my brothers and I miss you, but I cannot even imagine what it feels like for Mom. Right now as I look at Daniel sleeping on the couch next to me because he didn't want me to be alone, but he has to work in four hours, I am certain that if I lost him, I would never again be able to stand up straight. So often, he is my spine for me.
Each of us is getting older. I am now closer to fifty than I am to forty, and I am close to the age you were when we lost you. My body is beginning to break down, and things that used to be almost secondary now require not only extra effort, but extra sound effects! At even the tiniest physical exertions, I find myself saying "oof" so much that my students this past year picked it up. Oof, indeed. I feel like the younger generation has a hand outstretched for the baton, and I am straining forward at a speed I am nowhere near physically fit to run, trying to pass it off. I'll never reach them because, in so many ways, they are gone already. Your namesake grandson Charlie is on his way to your alma mater in the Fall. See what I mean? Your children are good parents; you and Mom worked together to accomplish that. Your children have created good children of their own. Now, it's their turn to ask, "where has the time gone?"
Daniel is making these little noises in the back of his throat while he sleeps. He tells me it's because even in his dreams, he wants to make sure I'm with him and that I'm okay. I think I'll wake him up and put him to bed. He still has a few hours of sleep to go. I'm going to tuck in with my birthday present--the latest Stephen King book. You and I have the same pulpy taste in literature. I wish I could sit up with you and talk about it...if only to have your words, inflection, tone of voice, and body language to reassure me that there's nothing to be afraid of. Please keep an eye on Little James. Please keep your arms around Mom as she sleeps. Please know that we all wish that you were here right now. Goodnight, Dad.
