Poster Board
It's been nearly a year since Dad's Celebration of Life.
It was Autumn Equinox.
Stormy.
With poster board in hand, I walked into the church's front entrance, worried that people wouldn't come because of the weather.
I sat at my desk a month prior and created Dad's Celebration of Life photo board, using the same photo as his obituary.
I have a love/hate relationship with that photo.
I love it because it catches the essence of Dad.
People, animals, and even butterflies were drawn to him. He had a quiet confidence and a charismatic, witty disposition. Dad listened and always gave excellent advice.
He knew what to say and what to do.
After his Celebration of Life, I took the poster board home but couldn't get rid of it.
I still can't.
Phil tucked it away, but on occasion, I retrieve it; when I look at it, I think, why am I holding onto this piece of foam and cardboard, the reminder that Dad is dead?
Why do I rub my fingers over his name and dates?
Why do I place my hand on his picture, a picture that I struggle to look at without feeling pain and sorrow?
Why do I emotionally electrocute myself?
It’s part of the process.
The reality.
I read his obituary the other day.
I remember writing it.
I remember where I was and what was happening around me, and the words flowed so easily, I think, because I penned them in my head a thousand times during this illness, especially when I would watch him sleep.
I kept thinking I shouldn't be writing my dad's obituary, planning his memorial, or picking up his urn at the funeral home (now that's an interesting story but for a different time) at 43, but here I am.
Everything I had seen and felt during those months was held in a sacred place within me, and God, it hurts, it hurts so fucking bad, and I miss him with every breath that leaves my lungs.
When I woke up on the 7th, this past Saturday, his death wasn't the first thing I thought about. In fact, it didn't hit me until early afternoon, 14 months, and the guilt and dismay slashed through me, and my sobs were uncontrollable.
How could I forget?
Is this my neuropathy brain?
Has my health and impending surgery taken up so much space the day blended in without notice?
I could hear Dad say, “It’s okay. I want you to be happy. Enjoy your football game and make some lunch.”
I smiled. Blew my nose. Washed my face and then made lunch.
But that is the evolution of grief.
The glimmers.
The griefy moments.
The tsunami of emotions.
The stillness.
The memories.
Perhaps one day, I'll throw away the poster board stained with tears, but today is not that day.
Perhaps one day, I will love that photo again, but today is not that day. 
I didn't post the link to my article in Get Griefy Magazine here. I did it on my socials, but you know how that goes. It's a personal narrative of being Dad's Death Doula and a little piece of our story that he wanted me to tell.
I am proud of this article, and it is my first published piece in years.
Sharing in your loss. Love and hugs to all of you.