Seven years ago today I went to Montauk with my parents. It was one of my father‘s favorite places to visit and, at the time, we had no idea it would be his last time sitting on those rocks.
September is probably my favorite month of the year; it’s also one of my hardest.
September marks the beginning of fall, the anniversary of the day Jeff and I met, first kissed and decided to become a couple 13 whole years ago.
September also marks the anniversary of the day my father went into the hospital, the long days and nights we spent by his side, the last time I heard my father’s voice.
The mind does funny things around anniversaries. Memories I rarely think about during all the other months of the year come rushing back right around September 1. It’s as if I’m right there in his hospital room, listening to him repeatedly ask the nurses when he’d get to go home. It’s as if I’m sitting by his side as he eats his lunch, asks me about my day, offers me his dessert. I can clearly hear his voice, see his face. It’s as if he’s still right here. But he’s gone.
It’s during this time of year, from now until the anniversary of the day he passed in October, that I’m a little gentler with myself, a little more forgiving. It’s during this time of year, when the flashbacks happen a little more frequently, when I close my eyes and see him sitting on those rocks in Montauk, that I miss my father a little bit more.