A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-Two-Hundred-And-Forty-Eight

Today marks seven years since my Dad died.  It feels like it just happened, and also feels so long ago.  The pain of missing him is always with me, but it isn't always what I notice any longer, and that itself hurts.  It doesn't feel like it should be okay that he is gone.  I don't know what else to say about it.  I hurt and miss him and know it can never be right again, but I am still here, and I know he would be glad for that, would want me to move on in life, to be happy, and to honor that is to honor him as well.  I can't reconcile any of it, but I suppose that is the nature of dealing with something as absurd as the death of a parent.

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