I can get through Christmas and his birthday, but the Big Game? It slays me.
I don't like football, really. I didn't really even like it all that much when I was young. But he did. It was the only sport he would watch, the 49ers the only team he would root for. So, of course, we all watched, we all cheered. And Superbowl parties, whether the Niners were in the game or not, happened every year. Now, without him, Superbowl is just another Sunday, and the ordinariness of it all squeezes my heart.
Yesterday there were no commercials and wings for me. No party invites or half time shows. It was just another quiet night. I went to bed before 10pm and had a fitful, restless, and anxious sleep. My dreams were filled with fog, literally, like the fog that hovers over San Francisco Bay on cool, winter evenings with the light from the Snow Moon filtering through the mist.
San Francisco
3 comments:
Ah. Crap. I'm sorry that your dad's gone. I'm sorry Sunday was hard for you.
This post is a very sweet tribute. And while I fully expect my father to live forever and ever and ever (don't take away my denial, it's like a cosy blankie), tweeting with you on Sunday gave me an appreciation for the fact that Hockey Night In Canada would be the auditory trigger for my future grief. Except my dad isn't going anywhere...right? RIGHT??!!!
i'm sorry, Christine.
*hugs*
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