Dad, it's been two months since you left us, and the grief and the pain that we feel haven't gone away. We're relieved that your pain is gone, but saddened that you're no longer around.
Your kids are the executors of the estate. Don't worry about that. We're working through it. We have to appraise the value of your goods. We can figure that out. But to put a value on your life, the things you held dear? That's a lot more difficult.
I knew you weren't doing well toward the end. I was preparing myself for it, the same way you told me to prepare for the possible death of another loved one, two years ago. And, when I finally got the call on May 3rd, I didn't even cry, at least not until I actually saw you in your room a few hours later, when the family and the minister huddled around you and said goodbye. In fact, I was going to drive myself home that afternoon until Kevin (remember when you met him, 20 years ago?) called me on my cell and insisted on driving me home. I figured I'd let him do that to keep him off my back. I could have driven myself home. I know it. You always taught us to be independent.
Two months? Could be two days. Could be two years. Time doesn't hold much meaning for me any more. One day melts into the other. I just know it's been two months since I've seen you, and that I'll never be able to get a phone call from you again. I'll never hear that you're worried about me living in the big city of Halifax, or that you're wondering how Patricia is making out (she's fine), or how you won a free ticket in the lottery the other day.
(By the way, I found an old lottery ticket in your coat pocked the other night. It doesnt expire until July 4th. I checked the ticket only to find out that it had already been checked, probably a day or so after the draw. You just hadn't got around to throwing it out. Don't worry. I did.)
Dad, don't forget us. We'll never forget you. We love you and miss you so much.
Your loving son.