You can’t pick when you die. I know you know that. Mom says your soul is already in heaven and that everything that has happened since is just the details, which has helped me a lot.

So many people are calling and telling me how much they loved you.

We are sad and grieving. I’d be lying if I told you my heart doesn't break a little every time someone says the name Sam or when hearing Frank Sinatra play. I don’t really know how to describe the feeling inside when someone says, dad. I know it’s not their fault and I know it’s just apart of healing.

When people ask me how I’m doing I don’t really know what to say because I don't want to burden them with the fact my heart has hurt every day since you've left. It breaks a little more each time I forget and then remember you're really gone. And sometimes I am fine, but then one thing reminds me of you and I fall apart. I miss you so much. I miss you all the time.

I know I need to heal. I know you’re probably worried about how hard I am on myself when I get sad or frustrated or mad or I cry on the train. I know you see me struggling. like when I left work early the first day back and when I told my mom in frustration that I just wanted to be okay. I didn’t want to be grieving anymore. I think I just don’t want it to hurt this much. I don’t want to cry every time I try and call you.

I don’t want to forget your hugs or your laugh or your smell. I don’t want the parts I’m finding out about your life to make me forget all the parts I knew and loved.

I don’t want to be mad at my friends when they talk about their dads. I don’t want to think about Christmas or birthdays or my wedding without you. Everyone says you’ll be looking down and you’ll know, but it’s not the same and it makes me mad at the thought of people trying to use those phrases as a saying of comfort.

The last thing we talked about was how much we loved each other. I wish that I had known that was my last bear hug. I wish I had known that was the last time complaining about you listening to barefoot radio in winter. I wish I had known that was your last pop in trip to my office or that it was the last call, the last time we’d all be together as a family.

I don't want to be mad at you. And sometimes I am.  I know I can't be upset with myself for feeling this way, because I know it is all a part of this grieving process and it's how I'm going to get through this.

I know you already know all of this. I know I don’t need to write this tacky “open letter to” but I felt like if I wrote it all out, it would help me know that you knew.

And I know this is just the beginning of the long road of healing. I know that I have a long way to go. But in the first few weeks, these were my emotions and I needed to write them out to feel better. You always told me to. This probably won't be the last post I write about you.

I love you forever and I love you for always. And I’m always going to look at a sunset and think of you. I’m always going to sing to country radio really loud. I’m always going to think of your jokes and your isms and laugh. I love you, dad.

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