Tonight I tucked in my four loves, and sang them the same lullaby he used to sing to us when we were little. I came down to my quiet living room and lit a candle and listened to this song that my sister sent me.
Amazing, the power of music to say what our words alone can't.
Tomorrow marks eight years since my dad left this earth. I wish I could take a drive, sit by a fire and have a smoke and a Moosehead with him. I wish I could hear his voice say my name. He loved to make fires, loved to unwind with a pipe or a glass of wine. He was such a storyteller, such a lover of words. His memory was long, so long. Poetry flowed from him. I miss him. Tears are fewer than they used to be, but they still come and catch me off guard. I remember him when the leaves start to change, when I help my kids push seeds gently into earth. I think of him when I teach my kids about birds and flowers and every time I hear an English accent. I think of him when I find treasure among trash and while I sip my tea early, watching first morning light. I remember his hands when I help my sons small hands whittle and the way he smelled of wood-shavings... always making. When I read Dylan Thomas and when I hold his Bible, I remember the way his voice wavered. I am so very thankful to be his girl and for everything he left with me.