Today I drove my mom to the cemetery where my dad is buried. Strangely, there was little emotion surrounding the day for me. I was actually more interested in looking at the gravestones of other long-gone family members and the names of people from the small town where I grew up.
He's been gone for 20 years. She kept saying, "Wow. Twenty years goes by fast." It does and it doesn't. I can remember the events of that day as clearly as if they had happened last month. On the other hand, in that time I have gotten married, obtained two college degrees, and become a mother. The world has seen two Bushes, a Clinton, and Obama as President, two wars in Iraq, and a rise in global terror. Organic food has become mainstream and the Mariners went to the playoffs 4 times (Dad didn't live to see them even have a winning season).
June 7, 1989. He was 43. My parents had been married not-quite 23 years. I was 19. I've now been without a dad for more than half my life. I'll catch up with him in a few years. Mom has lived as much time without him since he died as she did before they were married. In a few more years, she'll have lived as a widow longer than as a married woman.
These are just the numbers. There is so much more to say that I just don't have the energy for today. About the words and the voice etched into my mind forever telling me that he had died; losing my mom when a part of her died that day; never getting to know my dad from the perspective of an adult; watching my 7-year-old sister grow instantly into a little adult, thinking she was responsible for caring for my mom. The list could go on. I hope I have the energy over the next couple of weeks to write about these things and others.
But for today, I'll just note that it's been 20 years.
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