Everything feels so strange. Going to work and being apart of the life that I have lived with for so long feels separate from what my heart is feeling. To look at me you would not immediately know that apart of me feels empty on the inside.
The hardest time comes when I am alone, usually driving home. There are no more distractions but just me and the quiet. Time to think, time to process, time to allow myself to be sad. I force myself through a range of emotions, sadness, desperation, regret, sadness, hurt, anger, sadness, sorrow, and finally hope.
I know I cannot focus on the regret, that my Dad Loved me, that he was Proud of me. I hold on to memories from two months ago in the hospital as I walked in and grabbed his hand as he was surrounded by friends, his eyes were closed and he instantly said "This is the apple of my eye."
I hold on to the nickname he alone has called me all of my life, "Princess."
I cling to the memories of being at the Lake with him in August and so thankful for the way God orchestrated that trip for us.
I imagine him with me as I drive and get lonely. Standing over my shoulder offering a protection field with is angel's wings.
Last night I got to meet Dad's best friend from high school who served as best man from my parent's wedding. A man I have heard about all of my life and last met when I was 6 years old. He brought over pictures of my Dad from his boy-scouting days. He told me stories I had never heard about him such as on Friday nights my Dad would fill up his truck with .50 and drive up and down Polk street, Dad would call Henry at 1:00 in the morning having run out of gas. Henry said he took him gas the first time. The next week Dad called again from Tascosa Drive-In having run out of gas again, Henry told him he would have a long walk home and Dad never ran out of gas again. That simple little story held so much of my Dad's personality and humor in it. I was more impacted of the memory of him being so young and at the same places I am spending my nights now. It gave me a sense of presence of my Dad.
Henry's parents were photographed with my Dad's dad Thomas Edwin Lowe II at my parent's wedding. They took him in after my Dad's mother died of cancer at the age of 39 leaving my Dad his two siblings, and three half siblings behind for his step father to raise. A step-father, living in Amarillo still, who I sent a letter to yesterday desperately trying to find some connection to my own Dad. I feel a need to put the pieces of Dad's puzzle together by finding his lost family. A need to write down every story, every memory being told to me about my Dad. Wanting to compile a meager collection of his life to share with the grandchildren he will never know. A focus to keep moving forward, to not let the full loss settle in.
I have been proud of Ryan, his reassurance and love has been a support every morning through text messaging.
This feeling seems to be unending and yet I don't want it to go away. I don't want to lose him.
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