In some ways, I've adjusted to not seeing him or talking to him anymore. And in other ways, I have not.
I still get unpleasant flashbacks, especially when I pass by the hospital where he was taken, and once in a while I dream about him still being with us. It's even less pleasant to wake up in the morning and have reality sink in anew.
Even so, today wasn't too bad.
We know Dad wouldn't want us to be sad and mopey on his account, so we've made an extra effort to celebrate him.
We got a bunch of orange balloons (his favorite color) and two of his favorite ice cream flavors (Rocky Road and Cookies 'n Cream), and we listened to a few songs from his favorite singers, like Enya and the Carpenters. I also played "Jealous of the Angels" by Donna Taggart; that got us a little choked up. And we kept his picture on the kitchen table while we ate our ice cream.
Since my little sister has started summer break, we celebrated the end of her school year with a McDonald's dinner.
Like I always say, I'm not at all worried about where Dad has gone or whether I'll see him again. My faith gives me that assurance that it's merely a matter of time, and my only real problem is enduring the wait.
I feel sorry for those who view death as the true end. That's a sad and scary way of thinking.
When someone we love dies, I visualize them stepping into another room and the door closing, and the rest of us are still on the other side of that door. Our loved ones are still there but it will be a while before that door opens for us.
(Dad was such a big ham and never afraid to look like a fool!)
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