on mourning

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of my dad. He passed almost three years a go, yet I play his last days with us in my head almost daily.

Remembering the last thing he said to me. Telling him that he would be missed, but that I would be OK. The night before he died when he looked at me straight in the eye, his brown eyes locked with mine as he came out of his confusion. Listening to my brother play his guitar and sing him songs laying on the bed next to him. Feeding him pain medication. What his last breath looked like, telling him I love him for the last time.

I think of these things everyday. And my heart aches. My heart breaks.

January 27th marks the third anniversary of the last day of his life. Thus making January a time of mourning. Dear readers, because of this, you will likely see many posts about my dad. Writing is a means of mourning, so hang tight and bare with my sappiness.