It’s been a year since my dad passed away and it feels like a part of me was ripped away; my childhood was just gone.

The world has not been the same.
There’s no one there anymore to help me understand what a mortgage is or to drop me off at the train station at 6am. There’s no one there to do little things like lock the front door of the house. Or to make sure there’s a spare ink cartridge for the printer. He’s not there to kiss my head on my birthday or to give me flowers or chocolate just because. He’s not there.

He’s
not
there.

When we have parents that actually do try to love us and do right, we tend not appreciate them. They were there from the beginning, from when they had to feed us, put us to sleep and just watch to make sure we didn’t hurt ourselves. Through the tantrums they were there, and we have such little patience for them. When we couldn’t lift a spoon to feed ourselves they put the spoon back in our hand, or repeated themselves several times so we could understand.

They’re trying to figure it out just like we are, they’re growing up too. It was different for them, life, morals, everything. Be patient.

Give them time. Because one day, you’ll have nothing but memories. And I would give anything to talk to him and hear his humming as he wandered about the house. I’d give anything to hear him laugh that kind of laugh that made everyone laugh. And to hear him call me by name he gave me, I’d do anything.

Anything.