One Year

It's been one year since my dad died. At first, when everything was fresh, it was hard. But knowing that my dad is ok and that I'll see him again has made a difference. And I've been ok this year. I've gone on with life. But the last few days, leading up to this anniversary, have been reflective and more painful that I'd expected.

I went to his grave today, just to have a moment. I was talking to him and going over some memories when I thought, I don't know if I've recorded these memories. I want to write down a few more.

My dad's back was arched over. A long time ago he was 6'2" but he'd slumped over and was shorter than me. When you'd hug him you could feel his spine, which is kind of odd but somehow sentimental to me. I can remember exactly his hands, callused and long fingers. And when he was sitting and excited he'd bounced his knees and slap his hands over them and say, "Oh! I'm just so..." whatever.

I keep kleenex in my car because my dad did. I'd recommend it.

I reflected on the fact that I have never once doubted that my parents love me. My parents have always, without exception, treated me with love. And I'm a really lucky kid because not everyone has that. My dad was stoked about any decision I made and it was easy to be me around him, and to make my own decisions, and to live my life my way, making my own mistakes, because I knew he'd be stoked whatever. And even if he thought a decision was weird (On going to grad school "Getting married's a good thing too") he still supported me.

He helped pay for my mission. Last night I was going through some things we got from his house and among them were the emails from my mission. My mission means everything to me. It is the most important experience of my life. And I got to go because of my supportive family, and because of my dad.

School too. My dad paid for a lot of my costs associated with school. Yeah, I could've done it without him, but it was so much nicer to do it with him. And he let me use his car until I got my own, which was a big relief to me as I was returning from my mission.

When Fred and Dad and I went to Disneyland -- just weeks before he really got sick -- when I was still in high school, he made us ride the Matterhorn, like, three times in a row. I didn't get a big thrill out of it, but Dad did. Fred and Dad had mint juleps as we rode the ferry around Tom Sawyer island -- I probably had a coke.

Balm Bar. Never heard of it? Dad had some in his house and his car. Apparently it moisturizes very well. When I'd borrow his car we'd have to get his things out: the Balm Bar, medications, his disabled sign, his glasses.

When I was little Dad went to Italy. I know because he bought me back a small bottle of sand that read Venice. I wondered, because Italy was so far away, that he really hadn't told me about it until he was back. It wasn't until much later in life that I learned of a nice beach in California called Venice.

In January 2009, when dad busted his femur, I visited his every week in the rehab. Loved the wheelchair that sat by the side of the bed. I attempted to teach dad to text. But, uhh, Dad had other talents.

When Dad test drove my yellow PT cruiser (which I love almost as much as life itself) he rode the brake. I about died. I kept thinking, don't ruin my car, don't ruin my car. He recommended I think about the car for three days and see if I still wanted it. He went home and I bought the car on the spot. Love is love. And Dad was stoked for me.

Dad and I went shopping before back-to-school night for the sixth grade. We went to the Gap and I got gray stretch pants with a long-sleeved short/mini dress with twirl power (it's a legit power). I felt like a million dollars going to back-to-school night.

A couple years ago Dad and I were driving along way together, probably to the family reunion held in upper Mongolia (or Eastern Utah, I forget which). Dad told me how he broke into a radio station when he was in high school. They played some prank on the DJ.

Dad loved cars. He always wanted a Cadillac. He could name the makes, models, and years of old cars. He would tell me about the cars he'd had and I'd have no clue what he was talking about.

I asked Dad why he didn't wear Wrangler's like most of his family. He said he wanted to have kids.

Dad loved the Golden Girls and Dallas. Probably loved Dallas a little too much.

When I was five, Mom was at work and Dad was tending me. It snowed outside and I asked go out and play. He said no so I told him it was opposite day and asked again. He said yes. So I went out and played for five minutes before I was too cold and came back inside.

Miss you, Dad.