Learning my way

If only you were in Australia, I would have written you a letter on Monday and told you what it's like without you here, and you'd receive it and write back telling me what it's like without me there. Death and distance could be related if not for that impossibility.

I look for you everywhere. And while I don't see your face or hear your voice, I always find you. I see something I know you've seen or something I know you'd enjoy seeing. I drive roads you've driven, talk with people you loved, gaze at trees you planted. I remember the expressions on your face, the love in your heart, and words from your mouth. I remember your big hands and the way you whistled to pass the time. I bring you here.

I drank a martini in your honor yesterday. Truth be told, I drank a few. Just my luck your drink of choice was a martini and not, say, beer. We sat beneath the sun and smiled as we toasted you. It was sincere and sad but also a celebration of you, as if instead it were your birthday.

I'm getting better at it, at being here without you. I'm more familiar with it. And I can breathe again.

My friend sat across the table from me yesterday and asked, How are you doing?

I told her that I was okay.

She locked her eyes with mine and in a more serious voice said, Are you really?

I smiled at her and said, Really, I'm okay. This is not unfamiliar, I've had 364 days of practice.

The funny thing is that I've never thought that before. The words just came out of my mouth. It is true though, every day I practice being here without you. Some days are better than others but I'm learning my way.

Yesterday, the skies were blue, Dad, a brilliant blue. I couldn't help but feel that was for you. And for a little while it didn't feel like practicing at all, or pretending or even remembering. It felt like floating inside the color of your eyes. Then again, that last bit could have been the martinis talking.