The Hardest Thing I've Ever Done

The hardest thing I've ever done is lay my Daddy to rest.

It was harder than becoming Catholic.
Harder than breaking off an engagement.
Harder than my Nana's death.

I never realized how close we actually were, but that's not to say I took my Daddy for granted. I loved every minute I had with him, and death was continually at the forefront of his mind since I was a little girl. Back then, I just thought he was overly sentimental when he used to tell me "You're driving my most precious cargo to school. You obey the speed limits and do right driving." Of course I rolled my eyes, but I knew he meant it.

I'm lucky that I can say I knew my Daddy, that he was there for me. He fed me every night at 2 am while playing Super Mario on the NES in the 80s. He tried to teach me how to ride a bike. He took me hunting. We flew kites every May. We fished together every spring. He bought me sno cones and ice cream in summer. He taught me how to spit out of the truck like a boy. He scared boys off when I got older. He was patient with me in learning how to do Algebra and made me practice an extra hour every night because he knew I was weak in my math skills. He always helped me do my homework. He got me jobs during the summer so I could work to pay for my college. He pushed me to do my best and graduate and not be boy crazy. If I hurt myself, I called him, and he could fix it, or if not, he would give me the money to go to the emergency room. He would give me 100$ almost every time I saw him just for doing good in life. I called him about taxes. About moving. About shower heads and broken down cars. About jobs and careers. He was my rock. My guide. When life was wrong, I went home to Daddy because he fixed it.

He was my first and best man in my life. The only boy I ever wanted to white knight things for me. He was my first superhero, and the first guy I loved.

I can remember being six or seven, and riding in that old grey truck listening to Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. He would look over and tell me, "Now, when it's my time to go, and it will come, I want you to play this song. And I don't want nobody crying and sobbing and all that mess. It's not a funeral. It's a homegoing because I'll be going to the good Lord. So I want ya'll to be happy. And I want you to play this song and Elton John's Funeral for a Friend and dance on my grave." And of course, I'm sure I was a bit bleary eyed, so he would always say, "But that ain't for a while." He told me that most of my life. In fact, we had just had the conversation again back when my Nana died in January. When my mother left the room, he looked at me and said, "I mean it. And I know that you'll be the only one in the family to make sure it happens." I promised him I would.

And so I did. After everyone had left. After the grave was dug. After the casket was put in the Earth and covered up. I got my phone out and played those two songs, and I danced on his grave just like he had always wanted. 

I just keep wishing I understood God's timing.

The only thing, the entire weekend, anyone said to me that has made me feel a little bit better is this: "Your Daddy is not gone dear. He is just in a different part of your life. He will watch over you and take care of you now, and I promise you, there going to be time you feel like he is in the room with you, and Baby, he is. He won't leave you. He loved you too much for that and knows you need him."

And I thought about it. If I believe in the communion of saints like I say I really do, at some point, Daddy will be in Heaven. And Daddy can help me. I can pray to him. I can still talk to him. I can still ask him to help me, to guide me. He may not be able to fix the sink anymore, but I can ask him to send someone my way who can, be it a plumber or my future husband. That is the only thing I have found comfort in so far.

Still, I wish Daddy had been 82 instead of 52.