Missing Dad

Grief is a very odd thing.

One moment I'm just fine, and the next, I am liable to fall apart at the smallest word or thought.

Last week I heard Dad's voice on the voicemail greeting. It was lovely to hear him again, strong and healthy. Today I called, and hearing him almost rendered me a sobbing idiot on the freeway. Bizarre.

One of the memories that repeatedly stabbed my heart when Dad was in hospital over Christmas was how he would double me on his bike. I cherish this photo, and just thinking about it was almost too much for me to handle. Usually, he would have me sit sidesaddle on the crossbar in front of him. I clearly remember the feeling of the gear cables under me and the way his knees would stick out.

And this one is just heartbreaking. He was so young and handsome, and proud of his new baby. That's me, by the way. Kind of cute - look at those rosy cheeks!

I don't know if it's completely normal, but the same memory or thought can simultaneously give me a massive lump in the throat and a smile on my face. Over and over again, I picture myself arriving at my parents house, opening the front door, and hearing a hearty, "Andrea!" with his favourite jazz tunes playing in the background. My dad would greet me as though he'd been hoping to see me all day, and would then hustle me into the kitchen to get a drink or a snack.

It's happening right now - the lump and the smile. And blurry eyes. Such sweetness, mixed with the sadness of never again.
And now I'm really fighting the tears as I think of one day, that day when we'll have a happy grand reunion. I know exactly how he'll sound.

So grateful.