Daddy's Girl

About a year ago my friend Jody's dad died.
He was a perfectly healthy, (handsome) and active grandfather.  He had just retired.  He was happily married. 
He was an important part of her life. 
Not because he was her dad, we all have dads.  But because he made himself available to her, to her kids, to her dog.  He was helpful and involved and happy to be both.  I didn't know him well but I know her very well and when he died I felt a sadness that I had not felt in my life.  And an awareness.
The funeral was so sad and equally funny.  He was spoken of in such high regard by so many.  One speech shared the goofy, fun side of him.  Jody's speech shared the loving, wise side of him.  One man has many versions and it seemed that all of his were beloved.
His burial was so sad.  So final.  I could only see the back of Jody and Quinn and Kieran's heads but my heart was breaking for having to imagine what my friend was feeling, sitting front row to a box of her father's dead body.
Pride.  Because his life was something to be proud of and because the people that were crammed into that room to view his casket and pay respect to the man one last time were proof of the kind of man he was.
Sadness.  Because it was one last time.
And Jody is strong.  She is the strongest, proudest, most independent and respectable women I know.  I can't tell her enough how proud I am to know her, to call her my friend and to watch her raise 2 of the most loving, caring, smartest, most confident and amazing kids I know (besides my own, of course).
I tell her as often as I can because I mean it and also because, since her dad died, I wonder if anyone tells her.

My dad doesn't make it a daily - or even monthly - ritual to call me up and remind me how proud of me he is.  He doesn't gush at my daily phone calls or email me to share his daily details.
I barely see the man, a handful of times a year.
But I know he cares about what my daily life is like.  I know he smiles at the stories my mom recounts to him even though he pretends not to care to listen.  I know he is proud of the smart, confident, funny and gorgeous woman I am (imagining his thoughts here, not mine, of course).
I can see him smirking when he is trying not to laugh when I say something off-color.
I can feel him loosening up when I make fun of his rules or his weird, uptight "isms" that make other people bristle.
He and I are comfortable with who he and I are with each other.
And that is something I am so grateful for every day.

Today I told Jay that for the last few days, when my mind wanders, I feel myself thinking about my Dad's funeral.
It is not something that I should be thinking about.  He's not sick, he's not that old.  But ever since Jody's dad died, I can't help myself.  It brought about a certainty that one day it would be my dad we'd be burying because, certainly, Jody hadn't considered her own dad's funeral.  One day he was fine, then he got sick, then he was dead.

So today, as I was driving home from Glastonbury - I had hit the gym, showered, grocery shopped and was racing back north to get the kids from school on time - I found myself, once again, at the podium of some nameless church trying to describe to a room of random people why I adored my dad so much and why I was so sad at my loss.

Then, tonight I had the brilliant idea to write a living eulogy.  I could tell me dad, while he is still alive and kickin', how I feel about our relationship, how I adore him and how proud I am of being his little girl.
But that's corny and I don't have that kind of patience.

The day will come and I'll wing it. 

I take peace now, in writing this and reminding myself, again, how lucky I am to have a Dad that knows me, loves me, is proud of me, and with whom I enjoy spending time with.

Even if it is in short doses.