I started this for me. Somehow, like therapy, things are better when they come out of my head and get put somewhere else. While more and more people read this blog, I tend to think alot about what I write down beforehand so it is less a journal and more a reflection. Sometimes however, it still needs to be for me. Sorry folks, but this one is entirely selfish. Read it if you want. Just a warning. I know that I can write it and hit draft and it would stay in a state of limbo as long as I wanted. Or I can write the whole thing and hit delete and it would be out of me but I don’t think that either of those options would make me feel any better. It’s kind of like cheating. This is supposed to be about the good and the bad, everything rolled into one – me.

We went down to NJ to a family party this weekend. It was my niece’s first birthday Saturday. We had a good time, saw family and friends and ate and laughed. There was one person that I didn’t see.  I could have visited him, but I didn’t. I want to think that he was there somewhere and I missed him.  For some reason, I physically cannot get myself to go where he is now. I did go in the past. I went a couple times. But for all its serenity and quietness, it is not the place I want to be, not where I want to go to visit. Saturday marked 8 years since my dad passed away, suddenly. The sadness of the day has been replaced by happiness since my niece was born last year, and that is good, but somehow for me it cannot erase that empty feeling that came when he left. To make matters all that much better this year, yesterday was Father’s Day. Double whammy. Back to back sadness. Phone calls to all the dads in our life – my father-in-law, my brother, my brother-in-law, and most importantly, my husband. The last time I heard my dad’s voice was on Father’s Day. It’s been eight years, I am a grown woman with a family of boys on the cusp of manhood, I should not get all teary-eyed every year – parents die and so goes the circle of life. But I do, I didn’t talk about it, everyone else didn’t even seem to remember, so caught up in all the happiness that now surrounds the day. It seems wrong not to at least remember, he would have remembered us. But I can’t bring myself to go to the cemetery and bring flowers. I thought about it, it is only blocks from where the party was held and we drove all the way down almost four hours to get there, but I couldn’t do it. It is like someone sticking a knife into my heart. I cry, I feel guilty and hurt and miserable and miss him very much. I cannot bring the boys with me and have them watch their mother fall apart – and whatever memories they have of him, should be the memories that they keep, not the stone on the ground with his name on it and their mother crying like an idiot. So, I didn’t say anything. Somehow I’d like to think that he was there, at the party. That he knows that I think about him often and miss him dearly and wish desperately that he could have been around to see my boys grow and spend time with them and make them laugh. And that he would be proud. Like Dads are supposed to be of their kids.