A Letter.

Dear Dad,

I can't believe that is has been seven years. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday and sometimes it feels like decades have passed.

I'll never forget that sinking feeling when you didn't look up after I called your name, or the way my legs couldn't support my weight the minute I saw your face. I knew then that you were gone and things would never be the same. I wish that the way you looked that day at the fairgrounds wasn't the memory that sticks with me today. But, at the same time, I'm glad it's my cross to bear and not Mom's or Janell's.

I'm sorry I haven't stopped by recently to talk. Actually, I suppose I can't truthfully say that. I haven't been by to see you at all - not since the day of your funeral. I know I should visit, but I just can't bear to do it. I can't bear to see that headstone with your name on it. Even though I haven't been there to tell you about everything going on in our lives, I know that you've still kept up with current events.

I'm sure you've seen it all, but I still wish you could have been here to experience the last few years. So many things have happened - things I know you would have really enjoyed. I've graduated from college and Janell is already in her second year. We both decided to go to the University of Illinois - I suppose that's what has finally made us both true basketball fans. We also were both state FFA officers. You know, I can't remember if I found out that I made the top 10 running for office in time for me to tell you. I guess it doesn't matter - I'm sure you knew anyway. I got a job - in Nebraska of all places - and, I've gotten married. I'm sure you laughed when David and I started dating, especially because you and his mom, Denise, were in the same class. That, and Denise always tried to cheat off of you.

Speaking of Denise, did you know that she had a dream about you? She said, in her dream, she ran into you at the grocery store in town. She said you hugged her and told her that you were so happy to see her. She said that you were wearing a sweater and, when she hugged you, she couldn't help but catch the scent of moth balls. I cried when she told me about that dream because there was no way she could have known that you always stored your sweaters in moth balls. Come to think of it, I'm sure you did know she had that dream, because you probably had a hand in it.

I really wish that you could have met David and gotten to know him. David told me that he met you in the bathroom during our eighth grade graduation (that's so silly when I think about it), but I know he's very different now from the kid you met so many years ago. He's a wonderful man - he even kind of reminds me of you sometimes. He's honest, kind, loyal and loving. And, you should see him with his neices and nephews - I know he's going to be a wonderful father someday. I'm sure you would like him.

I miss the way you made me laugh, Dad. I still laugh when I think of you going down to the basement every night to iron your clothes for the next day. Once you would reach the bottom of the steps - firmly in the domain of Loretta the Cat - you would make this crazy meowing noise and then say, "Ooops. Cat's dead." Just the way you said it always made me giggle. By the way, Loretta has moved out to the barn, but she's still terrorizing everyone that has the gall to enter her territory. I laugh every time I see that picture of you with the reindeer antlers on your head - or the picture of you wearing my heart-shaped sunglasses - you know, the ones I wore everywhere when I was little, so you called me "Hollywood." It's even funny to think about the few weeks you had to spend in a wheel chair after you fractured your pelvis. All of the salesmen were so mad at you - your legs were so long, they could barely keep up with before your accident. In a wheel chair, they had to run to keep up with you. But, you just laughed it off because your wheelchair had become your new toy; you had figured out how to reach top speed going down the ramp at the house by grabbing one wheel to turn, and you could get your wheelchair going so fast on the car lot that you could make the front wheels wobble. Even in less than perfect condition, your smile made everyone want to smile - you had a way of lighting up any room you walked into.

I wish my kids would have a chance to know their Grandpa Steve. I know they would love riding on your shoulders or spending the day in your workshop just like I did. They would get a kick out of going fishing with you and going on trail rides. I'm sure they would giggle every time you got your GPS out of your pocket just to see where you were on the trail - just like I always did. I wish you could be there to teach them how to play fire ball, fix fence or ride bikes. I wish you could be here when David and I buy our first house - neither one of us are as handy with repairs as you were.

I still don't think it's fair that you're gone. I miss having you here. I miss talking to you and spending time with you. But, to be honest, I guess I understand why God wanted you with Him. After all, you're pretty cool and, with that crazy 75-foot wingspan, you're really good at basketball. So, I suppose, I can't be selfish. Instead, since you can't be here with me, I should thank you for everything you taught me before you left.

Thanks for teaching me to play basketball (even though ended up having no talent for the game), ride a bike and make the slide behind the house faster with wax paper. Thanks for taking me fishing and giving me the courage to touch those slimy worms and squirming fish. Thanks for giving me a strong work ethic and always supporting my dreams and ambitions. Thanks for instilling the importance of faith and a love of God in me. Thanks for teaching me to stand up for myself and my beliefs (well, I guess Mom had a pretty big part in that, too) and thanks for showing me what a successful and meaningful marriage looks like and what it means to love someone unconditionally.

I love you, Dad.

Maynard