For days I have been counting down the time until June 23rd. And though I am not one to dwell on death dates, this year has been different. Maybe it’s the feeling of loneliness and isolation during this quarantine. Maybe it’s the fact I haven’t seen my family in a really long time. Maybe it’s just because I am getting older. But I have been tracking the days more than normal, made especially difficult by the fact that tracking days these past few months seems pointless.

But as I sit here and write and the hour turns to midnight, I realize that today, June 12th, has snuck up on me.  Facebook’s “memories” has reminded me that it is the 21st anniversary of my dad’s death.  All along I’ve been dreading the upcoming date of my sister’s passing, only to find I was looking too far ahead.

And maybe my spirit and my soul have known all week. Because I have been off. Feeling a little lost and sad for no reason in particular. Or maybe it’s no more complicated than the fact that I miss my dad.

I’ve said it before but it’s worth saying again. When you lose someone, it’s not necessarily the significant days you think about. Most of the time it’s the everyday moments you long for. I wish my dad were here so I could ask him if we should lease our next car or buy it. I wish he were here so I could tell him how mad I am that Franny lost her Air Pods so he could tell me, “It’s just stuff, Sal, don’t worry.” I wish I could see his pride while watching her play catcher (also his position) on an all-boys team. I wish I could tell him that one time I was “Customer of the Month” at Starbucks so I could hear him say, “Jesus Christ, Samantha, is that all you have to do all day?” I wish I could tell him that I’m worried that I’m sucking at motherhood and that I’m completely messing up my kids. I wish I could tell him how smart Teddy is and wants to be an engineer like him. I wish I could ask him a million things about work and life and parenting and what he liked to do when he was little and if he played pranks on his siblings and which one of his parents did he get his sense of humor from and a million other things I didn’t think to ask him when he was alive.

Twenty-one years is a long time. In some ways, it seems like yesterday.  In other ways, it seems like a lifetime ago. And what started out being a blog about Chris has turned into something else, which I am finding out more and more can happen when you write.  Sometimes what you want to say is not always what you need to say.

Above: My dad and Chris, Christmas 1965.