I'm feeling crappy today - it's hot and humid, nobody could sleep in our house last night so we were all wandering around like zombies bumping into each other as we needed more water and to be comforted from bad dreams. I think that in my mind I'm disasterating - if I'm pissing and moaning about the first really hot day of the summer, what's it going to be like when it's 40degrees for weeks on end.
Nice, huh?
It's also the ninth anniversary of my Dad's death and this year, I'm more annoyed than anything. Annoyed that after nine years, there is no excuse for bringing it up and wanting some sympathy - that's all done with. It's a limbo year - not quite ten, too far past five. But it still really sucks and I still really miss him and I still want to talk about him but feel stupid for wanting to. I can get all excited about next year - the BIG TEN - you have an excuse for telling people, "My Dad died TEN YEARS AGO! Can you believe it's been TEN YEARS?" And you get the sympathy and the hugs and there is some allowance for bringing it up because it's TEN YEARS - a nice, neat number. People wouldn't look at you funny for mentioning that.
But nine? Nine is just nine.
I miss you Dad. And you're not coming back. And it still hurts. And I still love you. And I miss you more today than I did nine years ago when it was so raw and painful.
I want to think about you and miss you on all your anniversaries - the 11th, the 17th, the 23rd, the 37th. All those awkward numbers.
Until someone starts mourning me.
