Reaching for Eudaimonia

Dear Dad, Today I turned 19. It was the first time in 10 years that you weren't there for my birthday. Remember when we used to always pick a restaurant to go to that no one in the family had heard of so they were forced to try something new? I remember how you used to laugh so secretly. I thought it was such a diabolical plan. Today feels weird without you here. My favorite part about my birthday became sharing it with you when I was 8 years old. I would always memorize what day yours would be on before mine because I knew that whatever week of the day yours fell on, mine would be exactly one week later. One thing I missed when I woke up today was one of your signature cat birthday cards. I loved how year after year you would go and find the craziest looking cat card and write something quite clever on the inside. I always looked forward to your quips and you always looked forward to my reaction (which was usually faked annoyance). Secretly we both loved it. So now...

Dear Dad, I trusted someone. I really trusted someone and they broke it.  “You’re only broken if you choose to be,” You said to me after my first heartache. “I know, I know,” I say to you out loud in the heavy darkness of the guestroom. I can’t sleep in my room. I can’t spend more than two minutes in there. “Get out of your head. Stop replaying that part. Stop thinking about it. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t let this break you,” You say. But it has. “What if I can’t do it on my own?” I ask you.   No reply. They come over, one after the other, in the afternoon when the sun is setting just below the treetops. The living room is painted pink by the sunset. That used to make me smile. They tell me they can’t see beyond the wall I’ve put up. They say when they search my eyes for recognition they can see I’m inhabiting some other world. I remember this world. I remember it too well. Their arms are like anchors around my body trying to...

Dear Dad, You died a year ago today. The foggy recollection that this is no longer an approaching inevitability, but rather a fact that I need to accept is mind-numbingly painful. I still try to remember that day, the day you left us. Sometimes the memories seem hazy, but other times I see it in a monotonous pattern constantly on replay. A year ago it was sunny and unnaturally warm for the first day of December. It was a Sunday and I had come home straight after my weekend job at the little mom-and-pop café. When I got home you were dressed to do yard work. “How was work?” You asked. “Fine. Kind of a slow day, actually,” I replied. You smiled and gave me a hug. I was glad to be home. I had a test in Physics that coming Thursday and wanted to study as much as I could. Mom was cleaning the kitchen, preparing for dinner. You said that you wanted something spicy to eat. We planned on watching Masterpiece Theatre that night. “Are you going outside to work?...

Dear Dad, Today marks 2 years since you died. I know that you might think it would be silly of me to write you like this, but at the same time I don’t really talk to anyone about what happened to you that day. In fact, I don’t really speak at all about it. Sometimes I wonder if something is wrong with me. I can feel everyone in the family wondering why I don’t talk about you. They wonder why I don’t cry.  But I don’t mind telling you that I am scared to. I’m scared if I go there, if I relive that day that I won’t be able to pull myself out of it. I remember what feeling nothing felt like. I remember what showing up and hiding my pain behind a façade to not upset anyone felt like.  I don't want to do that.  I don't want to not feel anything anymore.  Written: (12.1.15)

Dear Dad, Today feels so incomplete without you.  There are no words for this kind of sadness. There is a bsolutely nothing at all.  Written: 12.25.13 ( 24 days after my father died) 

Dear Dad, You will miss my high school graduation today. I will sit in the rows of other excited seniors who are wondering what their futures will be like and I will wish that you were here. I always wish you were here. I suppose that is not a secret. I sometimes can’t bear the rush of inevitable sadness that shows its face when I least expect it. I’m only 18 but I feel so much older. I’ve changed in so many ways that I didn’t think I could. I don’t talk my head off, as you said I do. I don’t go out with my friends to the bookstore or to see a movie like I usually do.   I am sitting here, wishing that this day would be over so I don’t have to feel sad about it anymore. I wonder if there are others that will be graduating today that are missing one of their parents. Sometimes it’s comforting to think that I am not alone in this loss. I need your advice. I need you to be here for Mom. I need you to tell my brother that when people told him “you’re the man of ...