There Are No Goodbyes

Dear Dad,

It's a little over a month since you passed away and every night that I close my eyes you're all I see. Sleeping has become an effort. I have no idea how to process this anymore than I already have. I was with you when you passed, and it was so peaceful. You took your last two breaths looking into Carmen's eyes and then you were gone. When the priest came in to give you your last rites, you opened your eyes every time he became dramatic or repeated himself. It was entertaining to watch. Tina tried to say it's because a greater force was reaching you. Uncle Tommy and I are under the impression it's because you weren't impressed with the theatrics. Knowing you all my life, I'm inclined to believe we are right in this case.

There's not a day that goes by that you aren't on my mind. There are things that I really wish we could have talked about, and in my opinion you went far to early. I was looking forward to spending the summer with you, and just hanging out. But life typically makes it's own plans, and as I've learned so does death. The last day that we got to see each other when you were awake was when I came up to the hospital with my wedding dress. I found out after the fact that wearing before the wedding (aside from fittings) is bad luck. I think the powers that be can make an exception in our instance. It meant so much for me to have you see me all dressed up. And from your reaction, it meant a lot to you too. I'm glad we got our dance even if it was early.


The ceremony was perfect, and the day was supposed to have thunderstorms but instead we got the best weather we ever could have hoped for. Just as it started the clouds opened up and let in so much sun. The sunset was amazing as well. All in all, we got married, and we did it our way and I know you were proud. The only thing that could have made it better was for you to be there with us walking me down the aisle. Mommy did instead, and as honored as she was, she wished you would have had the opportunity.

I know that Boo is having a hard time of all of this. I hear it in her voice every time she calls. Sometimes I don't know what to say, so I just let her cry. Sometimes I just cry with her. Mommy refuses to accept that you're gone, and I know that she put off going to see you because that would have forced her hand. I know you understand that.

I wish there was a way to make this easier on everyone. I wish there was a way to bargain with God, or the devil, and be able to bring you back for the next 20 years. I know that we didn't always get along, and I know that we weren't close in the typically family sense, but I miss you and need you so much to be in my life.

I keep coming across situations where I want to show you things. The day after your funeral we took Emma to the American Museum of Natural History, and when we went into the ocean room, all I could think was, "Daddy has got to see these pictures, he'd think they were so neat." But there's no way I could send them to you. Boo signed onto your email account one day, and I just sat there staring at the computer screen. I'd give 5 years of my life for you to have been on the other side of the computer for just 20 minutes.



I dunno what to do anymore. We sprinkled some of your ashes at the beach in Charleston. It was strange, it was overcast the entire time we were there. The moment your ashes hit the water, the sun came out. I'd like to imagine that was your way of telling me you were happy. In September, Dylan and I are going on your weekend voyage to Montauk to join Boo and everyone else to scatter your ashes. Maybe that will help. Maybe it won't. Maybe there will come a day when I can listen to your voicemails, and not sob. Everyone says it gets easier, but they say a lot of things that aren't true.


I just hope that you're at peace now. I hope that you're fishing somewhere where the beer never gets warms, and the bait is always fresh. And I hope that when it's my time to go, you'll come and meet me with a crab trap in hand.



I love you.

jen.