Saying goodbye always seemed like it would be the hardest part when some one you love passes. I am learning that is not the hardest; it's realizing all of the things that you will not do with that person ever again.
I have always believed in not living with the "what-ifs, should've, would've, could've's" and for the most part I have been successful. However after learning my father has inoperable esophageal cancer that has metastasized, I am regretting and questioning some decisions I have made.
My father can not eat solid food any more. We share a sweet tooth and have always managed to satisfy it with several common favorites. My mom used to make my dad molasses cookies from a recipe that was passed down in the family. One time when I was in high school, dad did not eat all of the cookies my mom made. She was offended by this and promised she would never make those cookies again. She never has. She gave the recipe to me and for the past 30 years I have been the maker of the molasses cookies. I would make them for Thanksgiving or Christmas, whichever we were actually going to be visiting them, and then again for dad's birthday.
This year I did not make them for dad. I wanted to; I set aside time to make them, and then I had to have a medical procedure and was not able to make them. It is something I will never be able to do for him again.
So in keeping with my attitude of not living with regrets, I will remember what we did together and cherish those memories.
I was the third child of my parents; the only girl. Why then, did my dad take me fishing and hunting? I think it was so I would have the experience of walking in the woods and being comfortable with the sounds of animals; and so I could walk across a train trestle and know that I would be fine as long as I was holding his hand.
I loved hunting for partridge with my dad. We would walk through the pine needles that blanketed the floor of the woods and not say a word. He would point to the sound where we would have rustled up a bird and wait until all was quiet again. Eventually we would sit on the side of a hill amongst the tall pine trees and just listen to the quiet. Dad always had a roll of Necco wafers in his hunting jacket pocket. He would give me the pink ones because they were my favorite; the black ones were the ones we would try to get first because they were licorice flavored. We share a love of black jelly beans.
It is strange in writing about my favorite memories with my dad, how the majority of them are centered around food in some way. Ironic now, that he can not enjoy any of it again.
