Earlier today I allowed myself to step into the sucking quicksand that is commonly known as reading over blog posts of the past. Another one of my brilliant ideas. I didn’t dissolve into a wailing, snotty mess on the floor, but at times I felt I sure was about to.

I’m not sure what I was looking for, if anything. Honestly I think I was prompted by that damn new Facebook timeline that dredges up muck like an oily well of despair from times that should begone.

I think I’ve come so far, that I’ve been so strong. I start to believe that I’ll really be ok.

Then, with just a few clicks of the old magic mouse, I’m back in 2009. And beyond. And the part that ticks me off the most is that I let it happen.

Sometimes I really don’t like all of this digital preservation.

It’s still almost impossible for me to believe that my father has been dead two years as of today. So close to Christmas, when the excitement flows and I finally seem to be almost settled into my new normal as a widow and a fatherless child. I realized earlier today that I’ve never actually gathered up the courage to write about that horrific day here. But I did write about it here.

I often catch myself thinking he’s off in Texas or some far off locale designing another oil rig. But he’s not. He’s dead and gone and the urn that holds his ashes is buried in a field that the rain pours down upon this morning. And knowing that he is really not here is the worst of it all.

I love you Daddy, and every day I miss you.

Today we would have been married 5 years. You have been dead for 2 years and 9 months. You died 2 years and 3 months after our “first” wedding (the link explains all). You have been dead longer than we were married. Thank luck or karma or whoever is in charge that we had each other for many years before we were husband and wife, though that was not nearly enough. Going on three years since I last saw you still sucks, is still heart wrenchingly awful. Still. It gets better, but it will never be gone. It’s the last thing that ties me to you. Those moments alone in the hospital, before you were really gone forever.

It’s just a day on the calendar, but for a little while at least, it was our day.