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Dadisms II

“i can’t believe it’s been nine years. does anything ever feel any different? can you pinpoint a difference between the third year and the fifth? the second and the ninth?” – beth Answer: The difference is, the number of things I remember gets smaller as I forget more and more about him. This truth feels shameful, and brings heartache. The number of things I treasure gets larger as what I do remember becomes more precious. This truth brings pride and a will to share my memory of him. From time to time, I write about my Dad on this blog. He died on January 13th, 2003. If you didn’t have a chance to know him, well, I wish you could have. And if you did, then I hope you join me in remembering what he was like. All his obnoxious ways, all his quirky habits, … Continue reading

Eight Years

Almost exactly 8 years ago to the day and hour, I, tired from not sleeping and feeling outside of myself, got on a plane in Detroit to come home to Fresno. I’d been at work when my brother first called. Dad was in the hospital, he said, but not to worry about it. Probably just the flu, he said, and dad didn’t even want him to call. He was going to get a shot in the butt of something strong and flu-killing and then he’d go home and sleep it off. That was January 12, 2003. Roughly 2 in the afternoon in Ohio, where I lived. Last I’d talked to him was a week before. Sunday. I used to call every Sunday just to check in and make sure they remembered me. Dad was sick then too, had taken some … Continue reading