Hey Pop.

How you doing?

Today is a day dedicated to men like you. Today is the day that we remember men who have children. For some, today sucks because they're reminded of how shoddy their father is. For others, today is lovely because it's a time to celebrate a great man. And for some it sucks because the great man they want to celebrate doesn't exactly exist in the conventional sense any more.

I wish our family was getting together today. It would be great for all of us to sit around a table, with you at its head. We would begin with a prayer that lingers halfway between poetry and blue-collared frankness, led by you, of course. The prayer would be capped with an amen that would ripple around the table like soft, surprised applause. Unbowing our heads, we would look around, grinning, probably in response to the babbling of nieces and nephews that struggled for attention against your supplication for good conversation and thanks for each person around the table.

Words would flit across steaming dishes. Commentary on the food, queries about recent life events, jokes, stories, expositions...

It would be natural. It would be normal. It would be full of life. It would be what we used to be before you were gone. We've changed since then. Not severely, by any means, but we're different. We seem a little quieter, maybe.

Your absence is like a scar. It's becoming less and less obvious that we're missing something, because we've grown used to it, but you're still gone and when we take the time to look for you it's hard to remember what you're supposed to be like. All that is clear is that there's a slight discoloration where you used to be, hinting at what once was.

I miss you. A lot. And at the same time not at all. You seem so far away. Two years is a long time. I remember stories and sometimes I can feel what your hug felt like, hear how your laugh sounded. More than anything I miss what could have been.

If only I could have known you as an adult. What would our relationship have been like if you were around now? What would you think of the ways in which I've changed? What would you let slide and what would gain me lectures, either stern or soft? What new kinds of conversations would we have had? You always respected my opinions and made me feel like I presented my ideas well, even when I didn't. What could I have learned when I finally realized that conversations are not competitions?

How would you have changed? What would be sparking your interest, taking up your time now?

I don't think about you enough. I realize that we're not supposed to live in the past, but we are supposed to acknowledge it. It's just getting harder to do as it gets further away. I don't even know if I remember any of it properly anymore. What if my memories are fabrications? Pathetic attempts at re-weaving a history that didn't exist the way I see it? Why can't you still be here so I could be making new memories with you at their center instead of grasping at the ones that continue to dim? Like a sunset, they're still colorful, but they keep getting darker and there's no telling how much longer the sun will stay above the horizon and keep them lit.

Here's hoping Heaven is bliss.

Your daughter,

Holly