Monday, November 11, 2013

30 Days.

Thirty days.

Numbers suck lately, don't they?

How many weeks has it been since I lost the first man I ever loved?

How many Fridays have I counted since those dreaded phone calls that led to the worst news I have ever received in my life?

How many moments have I experienced where the tears started falling out of what seemed like nowhere?

How many times has my daughter looked up at the sky, or the ceiling, and said 'Good morning, Zeide'?

And then turned to me and encouraged me to do the same?

So many.

How many moments have we lived without him already?

Too many.

So how is it possible we keep going? How do we look ahead, all the while looking back and wishing, hoping, dreaming that all of this is some alternate reality in which we will all wake up soon and see him. There. Sitting there. On the floor in front of the new couch.

On the porch when we pull into the driveway.

At the kitchen table, glasses on, reading. Scratching out the Chinese food order onto a slip of paper.

What happened to all of those slips of paper?

My dad didn't sign the cards. He didn't do the writing. I don't have enough of his handwriting.

But I have a recipe. Chicken soup. I need to find it. I know where it should be, but I need to find it.

And soon.

Because that recipe is a piece of my father. A moment in time where we sat down together, discussed ingredients, laughed, talked, shared. Not that I didn't call him every.single.time I made chicken soup and/or matzo balls anyway.

What should I do if they don't float, Daddy?

Yoina, what did you do with my baking powder? I can't find it.

Daddy, I made a matzo brie!

I need that G-d-forsaken slip of paper. I need to close my eyes and find it.

I know I will. I know it's somewhere. Everything is somewhere, right? I mean, it HAS to be.

In the meantime I know I can make it on my own. I know I can. And I will. I mean, now I have to.

And it sucks.

It's not fair.

And I'll keep on counting.

The firsts. The nexts. The days. The weeks. The months. The years? Will I? I mean, I will, but how?

Sigh. This sucks.


I love you, Pops.

I miss you. Always.


  1. I love you my friend. Sending you lots of love and prayers to get you through these days. xoxoxo

  2. So so sorry for your loss, it is immeasurable.

  3. I'm so sorry for your loss. I sounds like he was a wonderful man.

  4. I'm so sorry Andrea. I know how hard it is to lose a parent, no matter what age they (or you) are. One thing that didn't comfort me at the time but that I find joy in now is the dreams I had about my dad after he passed away. Then, it just felt heart-wrenching but now, I feel like it was a way to have more time with him.

    I hope your dad visits you in your dreams and, at some point, that helps you say goodbye.


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