Dad's Memorial

Dad's Memorial.

Over the weekend on Saturday we had Dad's Memorial. A group of small friends and family gathered for prayers for Dad, and for a life that was. I had written something, but in practicing reading it outloud I cried the "ugly cry" everytime. I knew I would not get through it so I had asked Niki if I couldn't would she be prepared to jump in and do it for me. I got to the first line, and that was it. Niki took over. So grateful since it allowed the words to be heard and not a babbling mess. I am going to post them here, more for my own record. (I plan on printing my blog into a book later this year, sort of a journal of life since I started it).

Over the past few weeks since Dad has passed I find myself flooded with memories of him. The person he was, the person I miss. The person I hate to think of in past tense.

Dad was a person who had the gift of gab, NOTHING was short, a story lead to a novel. The funniest part of this is that he would insert "to make a long story short" into his stories about 10 times, if not more, before finishing. He called me Michello. He said “gazonheight” after sneezes, and always reminded me it was wrong to plug my nose when sneezing.
He had a memory like no one I had ever known, and was a particular person about most things.

We shared a love of sports, all sports, and some of my best memories of him are the two of us watching sports together, talking about how the niners will ever make it without Joe, or if MJ made a mistake leaving basketball.

He was the father who liked to surprise his children with gifts, saying “no” to wants only to go back and get the toys, stuff animals on another trip and have it as a gift when we came home from school.
He taught me there was good in bad in everything, that positive gets positive and negative gets negative, and that persistence gets you far in life. That to have only one good friend made you lucky in life. And to never go to bed angry.

As he got older he was more willing to admit mistakes, explain them, and tell me how much he admired Keith and I. How happy he was in my choice of husband.

He was blunt, as blunt as blunt could be. Honest to a fault at times. If he were here he would tell me not to cry, this is life, that he loves me, and to be strong.

We would end every conversation or evening with “Good Night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite and don’t forget your prayers. ”.

So. Dad. I love you, I miss you, I will see you in my dreams. Good Night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite and don’t forget your prayers.