I'd watch the sun slowly come up making everything bright and new. I'd get angry with the sun. I'd feel like it was teasing me just by rising, like it was obnoxiously saying: "GOOD MORNING, WORLD!! It's gonna be another BEAUTIFUL day!! Even though, well.......you know.....but anyway, GOOD MORNING!!". I felt (feel) like every day that goes by pushes me farther and farther away from the last time I talked to him, ate with him, hugged him, looked at him, heard his voice.
One morning, Thursday morning to be exact (2 days after dad went), I decided to take Oliver out for a walk before too many people and cars crowded the streets (like dad said to Laura in her "Three Deep Breaths" post). It was quiet. Cool. Still. Not the slightest breeze in the air.
I was walking, thinking, just missing dad. I was looking at everything around me, trying to find something that I could relate to him. I thought "Are there any pick-up trucks around?" I looked around....no. "Anyone working on a car in their driveway?" Looked again.....not this early. "Any fathers teaching their daughter to ride a bike???" I probably wouldn't have wanted to see that yet anyway.
Now, instead of people or things, I just wanted there to be something, anything in nature that I could look at and be reminded of him through. I thought "Daddy, I wish we had the chance to share something in nature together that will always remind me of you." Just then I was walking under a line of trees and out of the still air, came a sort of swirling rush of wind, causing the trees to sway and completely shower me with hundreds of spinning maple seed pods (which I think of as helicopters). They were landing on Oliver's back and head and in my hair and all over the street. I reached my hand out, caught one, gave it a kiss, then tossed it back up into the air and watched it disappear among the others. Then I said "thank you" to dad.
Yeah, maybe it was a coincidence. But maybe it wasn't.
Daddy, you flew helicopters, drew helicopters, even built little model helicopters.
Now you'll be remembered through them too. Love you, daddy.