I miss my dad.  It's become a matra for me, if you will.  Everytime I see something that makes me think of the man I'd only just gotten to know, it flits through my head.  It is easy to be angry, to say that he was taken from me too soon, that his life on this earth should have been longer.  Its much more difficult to accept that he is gone and that he'd want me to have a good life in his stead.  I miss my dad.

 Its been three months, almost to the day, since my father died at the age of sixty.  He contracted a rare disease called Amylodosis a few weeks before his birthday in November.  Three months later, a seemingly healthy man became bedridden, too weak to even turn onto his side.  The treatments for this disease are non-exsistent, so to speak.  The doctors tried to treat it like cancer, but it spread too quickly and did too much damage to his organs for any affect.

I'd like to hate the doctors for not being able to cure him.  I'd like to be angry at him for not going to the doctors at the first sign of illness.  I'd like to hate the illness itself for such a cruel act it played upon our family.  I realize that its silly though.  Without purpose to point fingers or to play the blame game.  Its done.  He really is gone.  He'll never watch my eight month old son take his wobbling steps.  He'll never hear him call him "grandpa".  In truth, that is the hardest thing for me to take in.  I lived on the other side of the country from my father, so when my son was born, my father didn't get to see much of him.  In fact, he saw him twice: once when he was first born, and then again the day before my father died.  I'll treasure that weak, yet happy, smile that my father briefly shined upon my son.  To me, it is worth more then all of my father's estate combined.  I miss my dad.