My daddy died today.
I can’t believe I’m writing these words.
I’ve been moaning and crying and begging God for one last opportunity to tell him I love him.
I just want him to know I’ll never forget his uplifting cards and time spent sitting, watching the kids paint or play or sing and the holiday flowers/chocolates/fruit baskets he often surprised us with—just because.
Dad was the best gift-giver and the first to call on my birthday and the one who offered the most words of encouragement—even when they didn’t feel deserved.
Today’s violent shake is a reminder that life passes before you know it.
Go kiss the kids one more time.
Hug on my hubby just a little longer.
Say “I love you,” even though you’ve said it umpteen times.
I miss you daddy.
I’m so sorry I didn’t call you more often or write to you more or tell you every day how much your words lifted my spirit.
You fought diabetes and endured a kidney transplant and open-heart surgery and then the mouth cancer. But today, you’re walking streets paved with gold, in a new perfectly whole body, with no pain or limitations.
I’ll see you again one day.
I just wish I could have told you one last time “I love you with all my heart.”
Because I really do.
My sister, my daddy, and me.