3 Years

It's been 3 years since his death. 

3 years and 3 days since I last saw his open eyes. 

3 years and 1 week since I last heard his voice. 

Sometimes it seems like just yesterday. 

Mostly it seems so far away. 

And yet there are times when it feels like his death never happened at all. 

But he's not here, so it must have. 

I don't think about my father's death on a daily basis. The thoughts come and go, and mostly they're happy thoughts. Of warming up with him before his softball games on Friday nights and Sunday mornings. Of going to work with him on Saturdays and learning why it's important to treat wood fence posts before you put them in the ground. Of the black and white fur left on his clothes on his Sunday visits after church. Of the cans of Sprite he practically had glued to his hand and lips. Of the smile he had on his face every time he saw me. Of the thousands of times he told me how proud of me he was. Of the millions of times he told me he loved me. Of the infinite times he showed me he loved me. 

On this day, my father is alive. I'm sure of it.