November

I house sat for Robin, and played with the sleep function on the alarm clock: rain, white noise, street sounds, wind chimes, a bubbling brook. I thought about how the wind chimes sounded nice, but they could haunt a person. I don't know what I meant at the time.

I thought about funerals in November, how cold it would be.

I met Debbie and Drew up on Mt. Palomar and we talked about how years ago they tried to re-introduce grizzly bears into the wild up there. I drove back to Robin's listening to Britney Spears. A shadow ran in front of my headlights and then off to the side. I stopped on the pitch black road, thinking of the bears. I looked in my rear view mirror, trying to spot something in brake lights. I thought about going back, to see what it was. But something inside of me said "Go. That was not a bear." I felt terrified.

Saturday was the last day of work for the seasonals. We all said our good-byes, but most of us would see each other the next day for the half marathon.

On Sunday as we got ready to run, one of the guys commented how we didn't really have a support group to come watch us run. It stopped me for a second. My dad would come watch us run. Why didn't he? Did I not tell him I had a race? I must not have. How could I have not mentioned it?

But Monday morning, everything came together. Monday morning I found out how wind chimes could haunt a person. It was hot though. And windy. I sat out in the driveway and watched the wind chimes blow in the wind while the police did their investigation and the medical examiner came and took you away.

It was not cold for the November funeral.

The shadow had crossed my headlights...perhaps about the same time you took your last breath.

And you lay there, while I said good-bye to my crew.

You lay there, while I ran a half marathon.

You lay there, as I pulled into the drive and wondered why your vehicle was still there.

Your birthday is in 8 days. You would be 60. I often wonder what you would be like. I look to your brother and sisters and picture you. It's been almost ten years and I can't decide whether I am thankful for the cushion of time or bitter about how it has increased the distance between you and I.

More and more I find myself like you, and trying to be like you. So compassionate, patient, and understanding.

When Candace's dad died, I watched her sitting with Susan in the back yard, surrounded by her dad's orchids. I thought about how horrible it must be to lose your dad. Before I went back to see her, I called you. I told you what had happened, and that you had better take care of yourself because I could not lose you. You said you would. I stopped by your house afterwards. You were in the front yard barefoot, trimming the roses. You came over and gave me a big hug and said "Bad day, huh?"

Who knew?

I don't blame you. You put up a good fight. You had integrity.

And I was always proud to have you as my dad. I know there were times you thought I might not be, and I regret that I had been at a loss for words when the topic came up. There's so much I'd like to say to you now. But mostly, I would love to have one of your giant bear hugs again.

I dream about you often, and for that I am grateful. I am grateful for every single moment that I am able to feel your presence.