Eight Long Years

You know what? This week marked eight years.

Eight years of missing the sight of that 1960 red El Camino come tearing up the drive in the summer. Eight years of going outside at home and not hearing the radio on in the shop. Eight years without hearing his familiar phrase, "Park it. It's time for dinner." Eight years without his corny jokes. Eight years without trail rides and camping. Eight years of thinking, "Oh man, he would have loved this. I wish he could have been here." Eight years of seeing one empty chair at holiday gatherings, graduations and weddings. Eight years of avoiding that turn off just before I get to my house back home because it's the turn off for the cemetery.

But, you know what's worse? This year, I didn't realize it had been eight years until two days after the anniversary had passed. That makes me feel sad. And, incredibly guilty.

How did I miss it? How did I become so wrapped up in work, hobbies and, well, life in general, that I couldn't even remember the date? And, more than that, is the fact that I forgot a good or bad thing? Or is it just one of those things that is?

In the end, I guess the fact that I missed a date on the calendar isn't the part that bothers me. Instead, I feel like I forgot about him, and that's what makes me feel guilty. Each year, it seems like memories slip from my mind. And, I'm sure that's not true, but it still feels that way sometimes. 

When it comes down to it, I suppose there aren't any good answers for these questions - or even the guilty feeling. 

And, that's okay.