Missing Dad

You would think that with all the time that we had to prepare for dad's passing, that I would be content to know that he is where he wants to be, is busy doing good, and still walks by our sides when we need him. And much of the time that's how I feel. But then there are times where I just want to see his face or touch his soft, snow white hair. His old gray sweat shirt that has paint spots all over it used to have his smell and I could sit in his rocker with it in my arms and feel him near. His smell has faded, but his memory and lessons that he lived have not.
We've had his memorial service and sent all the Thank You cards. We've painted his room, moved out his furniture, and contacted old friends to let them know of his passing. We've taken care of his business and filed his papers away to be sorted through later. The business of life continues. But it still seems odd that he is not there when we come through the front door, waiting in the old red recliner and gazing out the front window. Watching for the mail, the neighbors (he knew much more about them than they would guess!), and most of all waiting for all of us who loved him to come home. And I know that's what he is still doing-very busy, but waiting for those who love him to come home.
I had felt badly that he did not keep a journal of his life so that his grandchildren could know him better. But I found where he had stashed old talks he'd written, papers that he kept because they were important to him, and even a too brief life sketch that he'd written many years ago. They show the measure of a great man, a great example, and my promise to my children and grandchildren is that I will type them up so that everyone can have them.