One Year

I've spent my morning trying not to look at Today. At least not in big, heart-thumping ways. I've looked at the few minutes in front of me, looked at the few minutes behind, and angled my head just so to avoid Today.

But Today is Today is Today and I know I need to face that. Despite grief's arbitrary, unpredictable rules, dates are reliable knife wounds. There's no avoiding calendar truths.

It's been one year and one month since I had a real conversation with my dad.
It's been one year and three weeks since our reality was gut-punched and death's question mark wrapped itself around every moment.
It's been exactly one year since the question mark was removed.

My words are falling short and I can barely read through my tears.

I just don't get it.

Death, with or without warning, is abrupt. It's unfinished. 
I will never know what my dad thinks about his own death. I will never know whether he knew how many people camped out in the ICU waiting room night after night. I will never know whether he saw how many people flooded his funeral. And I will never know if he knew just how much he was loved.

But I hope he can feel it. I hope the intensity of our love and our missing pulse loudly enough to reach him. I hope he knows that we cry and we laugh. I hope he knows we still experience joy because he taught us to chase the light. I hope he knows that we will love him with every breath until we too are gone.

Dad, can you hear me?

I love you.

Please hear me.

I love you, I love you, I love you.