Four and a half years ago, I started a post with those same words. That was my first post after my mom died. Today I start them again, one week after my dad died.
I grew up a daddy's girl. As he walked home from the high school he taught at, I'd run down the sidewalk to greet him when I was little. For more than a decade before I got married, my dad and I would go to see the University of Nebraska music department's performance of Handel's Messiah. It was our thing; no one else was ever invited. Even as I went through my gawky years, my dad always told me that I was pretty and the last time I saw him, he was telling me I was going to be the prettiest woman at the event I was headed off to. He was always my biggest cheerleader.
When my mom died, I made it my responsibility to take care of him as he navigated life as a widower, left his home of 55 years, and battled increasing failures of his body. He and I have spent a lot of time together in these past four and a half years, as I tried to pay him back for all he has done for me. He was ready to let go, to be reunited with my mom. But me? I wish I had more time with him.
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