As of June 6th my Papa has been gone for 6 months. I have little patience with people; I have always had a good filter between my brain and my mouth and now it is a straight shot between what I think and what I say. On the one hand, it is good for setting boundaries when necessary, on the other, I have been too snappy. The pain is like a searing presence. It's like going about my day without noticing the mountain in the middle of the path until I run into it again.

Yesterday ended the second week without my Papa. I'm supposed to go to my Mom's house to pick photos for the memorial. I can't sleep; I lay here dreading the thought of letting him go, saying goodbye again. I can't decide if I need more time or if it will be this hard no matter when I look at his pictures.

I live in the redwoods and just took my dogs for a walk. There is a different kind of silence in the woods; the green quiet of mossy age. The trees have been there since before we were ever a hope. That they will be there long after I am gone puts things into a different perspective for awhile. The silence at home is full of the inside of my thoughts.

I spend my days with a hollow ache through the center of my body and a restlessness that shifts and paces inside me. I miss my father; I miss the gentle hum of his spirit, his wry sense of humor, his clean and clear memory of the details of my life.

It took us some time to develop that relationship. After watching each other from a distance (living in the same home) during my childhood, he stepped forward to be more active in my life when I was in my early twenties. He wrote me a poem that… Continue