I know it’s kind of weird for me to write you a letter since I know you can’t read it. I just feel like it’s something I need to do. Today is the 6th anniversary of your death. (Anniversary is such a joyful word; I hate to use it in this context.) I was fine this morning, and then I got in my car at lunch time to mail some things and it just all hit me and I started crying. I wish so badly that I could pick up the phone and talk to you. I wish I could hear you say “hey kid” just like you always did. I wish you could see your granddaughter. She is beautiful, smart, and funny. You would love her. I don’t know what kind of relationship y’all would have. I’ve actually never seen you with a baby or a little kid other than with A. But I do know you would be proud of her. I wonder what you would have wanted her to call you? No idea. I wish I knew.
I want you to know that I wish I had listened to you. You know what I’m talking about. That one subject that you talked to me about all the time. I really wish I had listened to you, like you wish you had listened to your dad. We live and we learn I guess.
I remember holding your hand as you left us. I remember how it felt to feel your soul leave your body. I remember how peaceful you looked. I’m so glad you are no longer suffering. God knew what He was doing, as He always does. I would have loved to have 6 more years with you, but knowing that you are no longer in pain helps me feel at ease.
I know we didn’t have the relationship we would have wanted with each other, but I love you and I miss you so very much. You were my friend and the person I could go to with my problems and thoughts. I hope you are up in Heaven playing your guitar and munching on potato sticks. I know the angels would love to hear your music.
I love you dad.
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