Lately I can’t seem to stop talking about my father. I try to stop myself, remembering not to overwhelm, but I can’t seem to.
I always feel like I’m making the person I’m speaking to about my father very uncomfortable. I don’t cry, or tear up, I generally enjoy sharing stories of him. It triggers other memories, happy or sad. It keeps him alive, as I know he would love to tell these stories himself.
This has been building momentum for months now. The stories come easier, faster and more frequent. I’ve been trying to figure out why this is happening. This uncontrollable need to talk about him.
Last week, I had the most amazing sail on a 420. I trapezed without a harness, smiling from ear to ear, feeling the rush of wind and salt on my face. After dragging the boat on the dock, I passed a group of men, some were friends of my father. One stopped, said hello, and mentioned how great I looked. I thanked him, and continued on to the bar. Before I made it, I stopped straight in my tracks and had a thought.
The reason why I love sailing, being a member of his alma mater, and seeing his friends on a weekly basis, is because it is a constant reminder of him. Of a time where we as a family had fun. The building holds copious amounts of positive, lovely, scary and frustrating memories. 
I am unable to enter his home, so that is where I mourn him. I mourn him in the club he helped build, grow, where he reached legendary status, where everyone knew his (and as a consequence) my name. Where I constantly hear “I knew your father, he was a fantastic man, we miss him very much.”
It’s a place where he still lives. Where I can feel him, remember him, and keep his memory alive.
21 days and it will be an entire year without him.
How is that possible?

Lately I can’t seem to stop talking about my father. I try to stop myself, remembering not to overwhelm, but I can’t seem to.

I always feel like I’m making the person I’m speaking to about my father very uncomfortable. I don’t cry, or tear up, I generally enjoy sharing stories of him. It triggers other memories, happy or sad. It keeps him alive, as I know he would love to tell these stories himself.

This has been building momentum for months now. The stories come easier, faster and more frequent. I’ve been trying to figure out why this is happening. This uncontrollable need to talk about him.

Last week, I had the most amazing sail on a 420. I trapezed without a harness, smiling from ear to ear, feeling the rush of wind and salt on my face. After dragging the boat on the dock, I passed a group of men, some were friends of my father. One stopped, said hello, and mentioned how great I looked. I thanked him, and continued on to the bar. Before I made it, I stopped straight in my tracks and had a thought.

The reason why I love sailing, being a member of his alma mater, and seeing his friends on a weekly basis, is because it is a constant reminder of him. Of a time where we as a family had fun. The building holds copious amounts of positive, lovely, scary and frustrating memories. 

I am unable to enter his home, so that is where I mourn him. I mourn him in the club he helped build, grow, where he reached legendary status, where everyone knew his (and as a consequence) my name. Where I constantly hear “I knew your father, he was a fantastic man, we miss him very much.”

It’s a place where he still lives. Where I can feel him, remember him, and keep his memory alive.

21 days and it will be an entire year without him.

How is that possible?