I miss his voice.

Every time he spoke, the whole room wasn’t an empty space anymore, the tone and cadence of his voice overpowering the quiet. I often teased my father, calling him the “Professor” because he liked to talk about random facts and beliefs that interested him. Sometimes I would nod my head, half-listening, wondering when he would put a period at the end of his sentence. He would talk to me about politics, current events, and his favorite subject, the economy. I rolled my eyes in my head when he got on his soapbox, sometimes dismissing his viewpoints as random ramblings.

I miss those days.

And even though it has been 455 days since he has passed, it doesn’t get any easier. This may sound strange, but sometimes I don’t even believe he is gone. I expect him to call me or walk into our home, telling me what he likes and dislikes about our Phoenix or our home. His opinions on things were distinct.  I didn’t always agree with what he said, but I enjoyed hearing his viewpoints, wondering what he would say next.

But there isn’t going to be next anymore.

He is gone. And everyday, I convince myself to accept the finality of it all. But it is hard. I want to know if he is ok.  Is he at peace? Is his voice echoing what I view as the unknown?

There are no answers to these questions. I will never know.

On this Father’s Day, I will live in the past. My father wasn’t a present guy or a greeting card guy. It didn’t stop my sister and I from shopping for him on his birthday and special occasions. As soon as he received his card, he would call. He would say to us, “You didn’t have to get me a card.”  I would say, “We wanted to Dad.”

I won’t be having that conversation this year. I really miss those days. I really do.

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