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My father's grave

My father's grave

 How is it, how does it happen? 

How do you go from having your hand held before you cross the street.  Having someone check under your bed (for the monster).  Having someone cut the crusts off your sandwich.  To being the one who holds the hand.  The one who checks for monsters.  The one who cuts the crusts.

When glancing in your review mirror, you realize he has been following you…most of the night…because you’re 16, and you’ve only had your driver’s license for a couple of weeks.  (Smile).  He stays safely behind you, he thinks, just out of sight.  Still watching out for monsters.

In what seems like the blink of an eye, those we love stand before us.   And then are no longer standing.

Even more amazing, you suddenly realize its been well over a decade since they left.  It feels like they are fading at times.  You can’t picture them anymore.  And like the child you were, and the child you still are, you need them to look for the monster under the bed.  Just once in awhile.

There are days when I can still feel his large, rough, hardworking hands, guiding my little, little fingers in just-warm-enough, soapy water as we washed up before dinner.  I can still feel his love.

I miss you, dad.

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