It's been four years since my father died. I'm tired of going back and re-living that night, playing again the last message my father left on my answering machine followed by the message from my brother saying he was concerned because my father hadn't made it back home yet.
That doesn't mean I've forgotten, though. That day is still with me. My father is still at the top of my thoughts every day. And so I struggle with wanting to allow myself to be happy and, in effect, keep on living while allowing myself to mourn my loss, a loss that's bigger than me, reaches beyond me.
I still grieve. I still mourn. I still cry. I still miss my father. I keep him near and dear to my heart.