Tomorrow, October 13th, marks the two-year anniversary of my dad’s death. October 13th is the day I said my final goodbye to him. It is the day he slipped from this world and left an insatiable hole in his wake. But it’s not the day I started saying goodbye.
Two years ago today, October 12th, is the last time I saw my dad awake. The last time he spoke to me. The last time he squeezed my hand. The last time he waved to me with his index finger. October 12th is the last night I ever went to bed knowing my dad was still alive.
October 12th ended the life I’ve always known and October 13th started a new one. Both days mangled me, but each in their own ways. I’m still learning how to live in the world without my dad, how to be a person without my dad. I’ve lived 13,357 days on this planet with him and 729 without him. I’m still a baby in terms of figuring any of this out.
I can’t fit my dad in’t a summary the size of an Instagram caption. I can’t tell you how much his life meant to my own, or how much losing him destroyed me. There aren’t enough words. I can only say that I miss him every day, that his death changed everything for me, and that I’m still learning how to operate without him.