Dear Papa

Dear Papa,

 

If you can believe it, it’s been 10 years since you left. 10 very strange and sometimes surreal years. 

 

I miss you. Terribly. Every day. I miss you and want to talk to you. Hug you. Laugh with you. Tell you all about what new thing is happening to me. Show you my office, my apartment, introduce you to many new friends. And then they can know the amazing person you are too. It bothers me so much they don’t know you.

 

I see things like smart phones and technology you would have enjoyed exploring and learning about. You would absolutely have a smart phone. And you would have had one a while ago. Long before I did. The main reason I got one was because I knew you would have insisted.

Also, you would be pretty happy with how Captain America is such a thing. We would have seen all those movies together. 

 

You and the “rent a mob” would have come out to so many shows, and really loved them. I’ve longed to hear your laughter in the audience and let others know that distinctive boisterous laughter is my dad. I’d like to think I’ve passed on that tradition myself though, being a loud laugher. 

 

I thought of you so much when we were at the Serramonte theater with all the troubles we had with their lights. And that you would have been there, understanding the old system and helping update it for the new. Without expecting to be paid. You would have even enjoyed it’s challenges. Because that’s who you are. I thought of you so much during that show. 

 

And now, well now, this year, I’m going to be in Father of the bride. And guess what? I’m the bride. And somehow this is so poignant. Because it’s been 10 years since you have gone. I wish you could be here to see it. To somehow be a part of it. Because just reading some of the script and thinking of you, made me weepy. 

 

You would have been there when I had surgery. You and mom both would have been there waiting before and after. Would have helped me recover. I had wonderful people who were here for me because you couldn’t. Wonderful people who have been there for a lot of things.

And you would have told me to quit that job way sooner than I did. 

 

The house is gone. The station wagon is gone. A lot is gone honestly. I’ve tried, but there is just so much I can’t keep. I’ve tried so hard to keep what matters. Your flag sits in my living room. And the poster I have of you working, and one of your electrical blueprints is on my bedroom wall. And of course Gorbie is still in my closet. 

 

My life is broken up into different segments of significant time, but the biggest one that rules them all is honestly 10 years ago today. Before you died, and after. Everything changed, and all within a year. And by the end of the year I felt like I had been through some kind of war, and I still wasn’t sure if I could survive. Some days I’m still not.

 

I’ve changed and I haven’t. I’m certainly more of an adult, I’ve come to embrace many truths in life, and much of the hopefulness of my 20’s are long gone. I suppose that’s not to say I don’t have any hope, but it’s minimal; and focused. 

 

I wanted to be just like you when I was a child; actually, I still do. I wanted to grow up to be my dad. you were the one who when I was an infant could comfort me when I wailed and cried. And you were the only one who could bring me a sense of peace and comfort when I hugged you when I was older. You gave the gift of the safety of knowing it will all be ok. I have never truly had that kind of hug since. I don’t imagine I ever will.

 

I still try to be like you as much as I can. I try to laugh openly and freely, give good hugs, let people know they matter, be kind, try to be generous with others, not be afraid of being a little emotional now and then, dance to “if I were a rich man” (well ok I don’t really do that, but I do think of you and your jingling keys every time.), enjoy a little classical music and some mariachi music, allow myself to be foolish, and when I know you or mom would be at the occasion – make sure to make as much of an effort as I can to be at that occasion. Because in your absence I represent you. To so many people I still – 10 years later- represent you. I’m the last Collett here you see. The last left in the peninsula. The last of the 5 at least. 

 

I still have dreams about you and mom. You will be alive and I will be so confused. We will have conversations about you faking your death but you are back now and we talk, I’m frustrated but at least you are still here. And I wake up, and then I realize you aren’t, neither of you are. To be fair, it does seem to always be mom that has the idea to fake your death for whatever it’s worth. 

 

It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that it’s been a decade. A decade of missed conversations, choices, moments that I haven’t been able to share with you. I miss talking to you every day. Checking in on what the plan was for that day, and just generally being able to talk to you about whatever was on my mind. 

 

There are things I wanted and dreamed about as a young woman that now I simply cannot have. It’s just a fact, there is no escaping it. I can’t have it. And some days it seems cruel. I have uncontrollably wept for these moments that will never be. I know you can’t help that, but it still hurts. And sometimes it makes it difficult to be a part of things, or see these things I cannot have. But I try to not let that out if I can, because I don’t want to take these moments away from others. 

 

I honestly can’t possibly express all I’m feeling today. Just know that the grief is deep and unyielding. But I’ve tried to ride the waves of it instead of push against it. I’ve tried to be strong. Some days I’ve succeeded, others I have failed. And I’ve learned that’s just how it is.

I fully expect when the time comes for you to greet me. I expect to see you and hug you so tight I just can’t imagine letting go. I think you know this already though.

 

I miss you, I love you, and I can’t imagine not ever needing you.

 

All my love,

Your Sweet Angel.