My dad died. My mom sent me an email last night that I didn't receive until this morning. He's been living in Massachusetts with his sister and had a massive coronary. According to my mom, he died in seconds and didn't suffer. I guess that's good to know.
A few years ago, I said goodbye to my dad. It was right before he moved, and when we hugged for that last time, it had an air of finality to it. He didn't call me afterwards and I didn't call him. Somehow, I knew that was the last time. I remember standing in his kitchen and we talked and reminisced like we always used to. He told me the stories that I'd heard a million times and still loved.
Anyone who has seen my dad and me together knows that I'm my father's daughter. I look like his side of the family more than anyone else. I have his sense of humor, which is dry in the extreme, and his way of dealing with people and I roll my eyes the same way he did. I was always his little girl, even when we didn't talk. It was the knowledge that we loved each other.
He believed in reincarnation, but that if he had a choice, he wouldn't want to come back for a long time. He believed that he had been around this ball for so long that his soul needed a rest. He wasn't a great man, and in some ways, probably wasn't a very good one. But he loved me and helped me and taught me and protected me. He was my daddy and I'm going to miss him.