Many longtime readers will remember that I lost my father to cancer in 2020. Yah. Like I needed another traumatic experience to handle that year. By the fall of 2022, however, I was far enough on the other side of grief to forget his deathiversary (copyright pending) entirely. “Why are my sisters so sad today?” But for whatever reason, his 2023 date hit me hard. Comically hard. You’re welcome.
I hadn’t slept well the night before (our black Lab is still in her cone and perpetually bouncing off walls) and the coffee was doing nothing to dispel my grumpiness. I turned on the TV to catch the F1 qualifying rounds (dumb Netflix has made me a junkie for hot guys in fire-retardant jumpsuits) and suddenly began crying. Dad had started watching it in the months before he died, and I have vivid memories of him trying to explain it to me. “Your only competition is your teammate!” It made no sense, just like my unexpected weeping.
Then I decided to practice yoga, but that also backfired. I felt increasingly vulnerable as I tried to slow my breathing and discover my inner chi and soon found myself sobbing in downward dog. Mindful meditation was namaste no-go.
I made it a tear trifecta later that morning in a Chick-fil-A drive-thru when I learned that Jimmy Buffett had passed. Dad was a latecomer to the smooth tunes of “Margaritaville,” but it was the soundtrack of our father-daughter road trip to Florida in 2019. “It’s been my pleasure to serve you, even with mascara running down your cheeks.”
Grief is funny sometimes, especially for me.