My dad lived a long life, and he was one of the most real people I have ever known. In the last few years he'd had several health issues, and some previous brushes with death, so everytime the phone rang, I had that little streak of panic go through me. Then when it rang that morning at 3:30, I knew. He had died by the time we got to the hospital, 90 minutes away, but I wasn't broken up about that. I had talked to him the week before, we had a good conversation, and the last thing we said was I love you. There was no unfinished business between us, and I took comfort in that. I was sad that he was gone, but I was at peace with it.

Rich mentioned those triggers.... three weeks after my father died, it was my birthday. I came home from work that day, all gloomy, and when Mister asked me what was wrong, I just started to bawl. My daddy's not going to call me on my birthday. He's not going to call me, he's not going to send me a card. Ever again.

It was the Ever Again that got to me. I went up to take a nap and didn't wake until after 10pm. But after that, I started to feel less bad.

Three years later, though, I still find myself flipping through catalogs and thinking, wow, Dad would really like this. Or I'll catch myself thinking, I need to call Dad and tell him about this.

There are always lots of things I want to tell him about. But somehow, I think he knows.