During the holiday season I tend, like many, to ride the emotional roller coaster inspired by the intensity of the season. So much joy is awe inspiring, but at times I am so overwhelmed by grief that I cannot breathe.
My father died when I was 22 years old. Throughout that particular year I pretended that it wasn't happening. I went through the motions of college life; I went to class and had an apartment. I studied and I partied. My roommates and I had Thursday night happy hour weekly with a keg in our bathtub.
All the while my father was dying from the inside out from cancer. He suffered and toiled along with my mother, letting me live my insignificant life to the fullest, trying not to burden me with his own pain.
This entry is dedicated to him. The pain I choke back in my throat at this very moment is just a small punishment for being a selfish and negligent daughter to a father who could stun me with remark, whose witty banter was an everyday occurrence until IT WASN'T.

Here are all the things that are missed when one loses a parent too young. Here are all the small, seemingly meaningless day to day occurrences that most people take for granted. When someone dies, the day to day seems huge.
First, 18 months after my father died I was married. I walked down the aisle, in a beautiful gown, on a picture perfect day, alone. I stood alone, and my father wasn't there to walk me down the aisle to shake my future husband's hand or kiss my face. I do not grieve for myself, for always of an independent nature, I was sure he would be fiercely proud that I didn't need anyone to 'give me away'. I gently rejected my loving uncles who offered their arm on that day. Instead, my husband met me halfway, on his own accord, to walk with me to the altar.
I am sad he missed it. I am sure in my heart he was sad before he died, knowing he would miss these milestones~the dance.
I bore four beautiful children with this husband. My father would never hold them, or smell them, or feel their breath on his face. He would never be able to read them a book, tell a story. My father would never be able to watch first steps, to console after a time out. He would never get the chance to watch them throw a baseball, or swim or learn to ride a bike. My father would never know that one twin snores all night, while the other inherited his passion for books and read to all hours of the night. He would never sit with my mother at a little league game or football game, then go home to analyze the referee or umpire. He would never see birthday cakes or new school clothes. Dad would never get to see a perfect report card, or hear 'through the grapevine' that his twin grandsons are incredibly intelligent, savvy boys who can walk in a room and own it. He would never know his grandsons' handshake. Or that they like milk from the Milky Way farm. He would not see the first turkey shot in turkey season, or the first buck shot in Pennsylvania snow. He will miss the sledding and laughing and the many Christmas mornings. The whims of a three year old granddaughter playing tea party or dollhouse will escape him.
The books we read together and separately have only one half a discussion, since he is not here for me to dissect a novel with. His red jeep has long since been sold. The factory where he worked as a purchasing manager has recently closed due to the economy, and he wasn't there to say how sorry he was to the workers who lost their jobs.
My mother lost the love she counted on. She has suffered her own hand of cancer, and has lost herself amongst the chemo treatments and radiation. He missed it, I did it on my own. Do I resent him for not being here? Of course. Do I wish he had to go through it again with the woman he loved? No, never.
My father will miss me the most. He will miss the rhetoric of our life. He will miss the piano I played and practiced and played for him. He will miss his books. He will miss the yellow legal pads he wrote on. He will miss the classical music, he will miss the hamloaf I make every Christmas Eve and the Tom and Jerry hot toddie drinks I make during the holiday season.
My children will miss an ardent and staunch supporter of their endeavors. My boys will miss the knowledge he would have bestowed them, the intellect he would have graced them with. They will not truly understand the real meaning of sarcasm or wit. My boys will miss long and lazy fall afternoons sitting outside on the patio discussing football or books. They will miss really delicious chili and a pretty good roast chicken dinner prepared by him. My children will miss a man who could laugh so hard no noise would come out and his eyes would run with tears. They will miss a man who would never miss a ballgame or match, who would stand and applaud even if they struck out. They will never know a pride so fierce as his or a love as loyal.
I think in the end, my kids will have been the ones who lost the most. Because, after all, I got 22 years of laughter, yelling, tears, hugs, long evening discussions. I got to kick and jump into leaf piles that took him time to create, but he loved watching me destroy them.
They will look upon photos of man wearing tortoiseshell, round Harry Potter type glasses, having a beer or a cup of coffee. They ask questions, child's questions, and I answer them as best as I can. But the man was indescribable.
He was simply my father.