This past weekend, I was at the wedding of a very close family friend. Both my sister and I were in town for the weekend, and Saturday was wonderful and chaotic and beautiful and emotionally moving and full of lots of people whom I love and cherish.
And yet, throughout the din and hullaballo, I was acutely aware of an absence.
I felt it first Saturday morning while I was in the shower. And as I stood there, letting grief and hot water rush over me in approximately equal proportion I wondered if every happy occasion was now bound to be slightly bittersweet. If I could ever be completely joyous, without a part of me being sad that my dad wasn't there to share in my happiness.
I could clearly imagine what this weekend would have been like with my dad around. My dad was the type of person who, when he was excited, could start jumping up and down. Other people's joy was his joy. This weekend would have gotten him so riled up with excitement that it would have driven me absolutely crazy. I would have yelled at him to calm down. And he would have cackled like some crazy maniac and refused. He could be completely maddening sometimes.
And now, I miss that vicacity of his every day. I would give anything to hear him cackle again, or to see him jumping up and down.
I managed to rein it in for most of the rest of the day. And then, during the toasts, the grief pricked up in me again. And as I sat there feeling sad, I also felt ashamed. Ashamed that after over three years, I don't have total control over my sadness. And ashamed that instead of being 100% happy at this loveliest of weddings, that I was crying.
1 week ago