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Sunday, November 11, 2012

In My Father's House

Today my preacher talked about having "an acquaintance with grief." I have it. Grief and i may become good friends, and that's fine. I do fit in the stereotype of "sad: it's happy for deep people." And I'm fine with that.

I still can't walk into what is now just "my mom's house" without expecting my dad to be standing at the kitchen counter munching on almonds and exuberantly greeting my kids and I.

I didn't cry this time, not even when my brother and his family had left and all my kids were asleep and Mom and I were sorting through endless boxes of Dad's books so I could take the ones I've wanted. Not even when my mom cried.

But now the house is quiet and in front of me is a picture of my dad in his Air Force uniform, and I'm crying. Not because he's dead, but only because I miss him.

It's a step.

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