2-6-20?9

My father died on February 6th, 2009. The day after my seventeenth birthday.

2-6-2009

Today is February 6th, 2019. The day after my twenty-seventh birthday.

2-6-2019

The date on the calendar only differs by one digit, but that digit encapsulates so much change. So much growth. Grief. Love. Remembrance.

Ten years, all bottled up in that tiny little 1, as if it’s barely different at all.

2-6-2009 felt like the moment that you rear-end someone after slowly skidding on a patch of black ice. When your car starts sliding, it takes you by surprise, but the closer you get to the car in front of you, the more inevitable the crash becomes. That moment of sliding feels simultaneously short and long, like a half second stretched out to seem like an hour. And when you finally collide, there’s a sense of relief, because at least you’re alive, and the anticipation of the crash is over. But there’s also a sense of dread, because now you have to get out of the car. You have to face what’s happened, and deal with it, and move forward.

2-6-2009 felt like sitting in my car, relieved that the crash was over, but dreading the getting out, the dealing with it, and the moving forward.

On 2-6-2009, I was in my junior year of high school in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was a supporting role in two school musicals, 42nd Street, and Les Miserables. I was a singer, and a songwriter, and a guitarist. My dad was so proud of my music; he used to share my demos with his colleagues at the radio station he worked for, Froggy 98.3 (you might know it from the sticker on the side of Dwight Schrute’s cubicle). I had lots of friends, and I loved them more than anything. I didn’t have a boyfriend, but I wanted to, as most young girls do. I was a good kid, very active in my church, but a little more self-centered than I knew at the time, or like to admit.

My dad was there. He wasn’t as warm as I wanted him to be. He wasn’t always easy to talk to. But he was there. He was in his recliner, watching scary movies on demand, petting the cat. He was at home for dinner, sitting in his spot at the table, asking for more napkins, making my mom laugh with an inappropriate joke. He was at work, producing radio commercials, because that was more stable than being a DJ, and he didn’t want to uproot our family again. He was at church, leading the congregation in prayer. He was at rehearsal for his next play at Little Lake Theatre. He was upstairs, debating my mom over politics. He was in the kitchen in the morning. Feeding the dog. Taking his medication. Grabbing his keys. Putting on his coat. He was painting sometimes, on good days, silly little paintings that my family would come to treasure and hang all over the walls of our houses, apartments, and dorm rooms. A hot air balloon for my little brother. A cello for my mom. A bird for me.

He was there. Available. On any given day, I could have asked him about the time he met Paul McCartney, or the summer he hitchhiked across the country with his friends. Or what it was like to be in the military during Vietnam. I could have asked him about his grandmother and the southern food she used to cook, or his brothers and what they did for fun when they were growing up. I could have asked him why he decided to get rid of his accent, move to New York, and become a radio DJ. How in the world he could eat sardines straight from the can.

He was there. And then he wasn’t.

2-6-2019 feels more like a rainy day on a long trip. It’s quiet, and it’s sad, but you know the rain will pass. You could drive through it, ignore it, pretend it’s not there. Or you could stop for the night, get out of the car, step over the puddles, feel the rain on your face as it falls. It doesn’t really matter. Either way, tomorrow you’ll keep traveling.

On 2-6-2019, I am sitting on the couch, in a little house that I own, in Nashville, Tennessee. Lying at my feet is my dog, Willow. Across the room, my husband sits at the kitchen table, working on his photography business. Earlier today I worked at my 9-5 desk job as an administrator for a non-profit that serves human trafficking survivors. I still write songs. I still do theatre. I still love my friends more than anything, and I’m still a little more self-centered than I’d like to admit. But, my life looks entirely different now- and my dad is still back there, in 2009.

I think the hardest part of losing a loved one, after the worst of the grief wanes, is noticing all of the things they would have loved if they were still around. My dad would love my new music, how my writing has evolved, and how good I’ve gotten at guitar. He would adore my husband and his small-town southern family. He would enjoy eating seafood with me, since I never ate it when I was young. He would have loved Black Mirror, and the musical Waitress, and my mother-in-law’s farm. He would love Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and be so happy that we finally have marriage equality. He would be so proud of my older brother as he prepares to graduate from law school at the University of Pennsylvania. So proud of my younger brother, as he prepares to commission into the U.S. Army.

On 2-6-2009, I hadn’t gotten to know my dad as the person he was, apart from being my father. And on 2-6-2019, that’s what I ache for more than anything. But I see so much of him in myself, even now, a decade later. My love for music. My compassionate heart. My hair, my jawline, my spirituality. All of these I got from him.

So on 2-6-2019, although I was tempted to just keep driving- I’m getting out of the car. I’m feeling the rain on my face, and jumping through puddles, each drop of water a memory of who my father was, and who he still is, somehow preserved in who I am now.

On 2-6-2009, my father died.

But on 2-6-2019, in a small, but true way- my father is still alive.