Dad died last spring. Divine providence provided perfect timing for me to be there. We gave and received all the love we had somehow missed with each other. It was short, intensely sweet, real and then over. I saw and felt and heard our love. It was there after all, buried.
What was amazing, but also hurt so much is that there was this whole circle of people who showed up at the hospital that had parts of my daddy that I never had, maybe when I was young, but not for years and years. They loved him and he was a huge part of their lives and they obviously felt incredibly loved by him. It was weird and surreal, like they knew someone I didn't, and I felt robbed! Angry! Hated them! Wanted them gone, so I could have some last crumbs. What I realized was that there was enough to go around. I had to come to this, because they stayed and wouldn't leave. I started being thankful to see this man through their eyes. To hear their stories of him. My sadness and memories mixed with their tears and stories made the air he was gulping with his last breaths sweet, I hope. I didn't get a call from him, from my dad this year. Didn't have anything to dread.