Oh, to be embraced in memories. To be swirled by the raging storm of flashbacks. Now they storm my vision, viscous tears threaten to spill as I write this- my last commission to you. 

My only wonder is if your life flashed before your eyes- if those memories spewed from a locked part in your brain- if you had any of it to offer. 

If you had anything to offer, would it have been your time? Would you have spent your last moments alive with your children? Would you have made up for lost times? I feel I already know the answer, and I fear it. Maybe, you would’ve opted for a quicker way out- and surely you found it. 

At just 38 years old, you passed. Out of those 38 years, you had four children. Four children that rarely remember you, at least the younger two hold no memories. The others weren’t as close with you as I was. 

I remember all the stories you told me- everything you said. However, there is no one to finish those stories- to retell them now. Now I sit hungry for your stories, now I sit waiting for your presence- it will never come again. 

Now, I realize slowly, that the stages of grief will stick with me forever. There is no point in looking around for you anymore, is there? 

Did you ever really love us? There is so much I want to say- to ask. But there is nobody here to answer. Now I live and wonder, and I dread every morning. 

Would you have been proud of me? I was in a musical you never saw, and next Friday I’ll be in a play- you’ll never get to see. I joined the Drug Free Clubs of America, I played sports, I do crafts, and I paint- I would’ve painted you stars. Now I can’t. 

Had I known how you felt- the way you tried to escape, I would’ve taken all your pain away. Remember when you said that to me? You used to tell me that every time I spent the night when I was younger- we used to talk for hours, we stayed up well past midnight- sometimes until three in the morning. That was my favorite time. 

We used to go outside and play at night, you used to let us have your white t-shirts and dance in the rain. You used to give us cards on our birthdays, you used to paint- all your pictures were beautiful and delicate. I remember when we painted the tree’s with eggs, you helped us throw them. 

I remember the holidays we celebrated- it wasn’t much, but it didn’t matter because it was home. And those moments with you will always be home, my home. 

I miss you Dad, and I always will. I hope heaven embraces you with warm arms and you save a seat for me right next to you.