Cold November, I Hate You So

I'm thankful to be sitting on the white sandy beach today as the waves roll in and the warm sun tans my skin.  I'm thankful for my family, my friends, the blessings, the forgiveness and the mercy that God has bestowed upon my life.

But today is still a sad day for me.

Twenty years ago today, November 22, 1992, my daddy died. Twenty years. My God in Heaven, I cannot believe that he's been gone for twenty years.



Daddy, me, authentic Glow Worm
and Cabbage Patch Kid, circa 1984.

If my daddy's death was a person, it would legally be able to buy cigarettes. That, to me, is absolutely surreal.

And although twenty years have passed, I still remember him well.

I remember the sound of his guitar as he strummed Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth". I remember the sound of his raspy voice singing the words. "Stop, hey, what's that sound? Everybody look what's going down."

I remember his hands, tan and wrinkled by the sun. The tip of his right first finger had been chopped off in an accident when he was a boy. I remember examining the smooth nub and thinking it was the coolest thing in the world.

I remember the feeling of his mustache grazing my cheek when he kissed me.

I remember every drive with him, the radio always on the oldies station, Cool 103. I remember telling him what a stupid song "Mr. Big Stuff" was. And I remember him laughing and saying, "Who do you think you are?"

I remember sitting in the golf cart watching him play 18 holes while he screamed directions at the ball flying through the air.

I remember looking up at him when he was surrounded by his friends. He was the one doing the talking, they were doing the laughing. I remember thinking my daddy was the funniest person in the world.

And I remember the not so great things.

I remember his addictions to golf and Jack Daniels and the country club. I remember him spending more time with his friends than his family.

And I remember his promises to get better. I remember watching him fulfill those promises and turn his life around and become a more present father and husband.

I remember the pain on his face as he gripped his chest and collapsed in the hallway.

And I remember fearing that I'd forget my daddy. I mourn for that eleven year old girl that studied her father's face in the casket, wanting to engrave every line, every wrinkle, every sunspot in her mind.

I'd already discovered my passion for writing before my father passed away. I'd dabbled in poetry and short stories since I was eight years old. And shortly after he died on November 22, 1992, I sat on our ugly nineties floral couch, and I wrote the following poem.

Cold November, I hate you so.
On the 22nd of your month, someone special had to go.
He left me alone on that cold day.
He left me there, alone to pray.
My life was changed on the twenty second.
My daddy left me and went to Heaven.
On the 22nd of evil November, my daddy was gone.
I hope I remember him after it's been so long.

I was a stickler for rhyming things back then...

But, I do remember him. It has been so long. Today marks twenty years.

And I remember him just fine.

I'm thankful for that.