Thirty Years

It has been thirty years today since my father died. The day almost got away from me without even realizing it. I guess that's a good thing. The last time I saw my father was at the Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City on July 4, 1981. I was heading off to Girl Scout Camp in Ten Sleep, Wyoming for two wonderful weeks of horseback riding. I don't remember the last words I spoke to my father, or the last words he spoke to me. I'm sure we both said "I love you" no doubt he told me to be careful. I'm sure there was a hug. I didn't commit our good-bye to memory because it wasn't supposed to be the last time I saw him. He was supposed to pick me up at the same airport on July 18. Little did I know I would be coming home on July 11 with one less parent. There is no good way to learn your father has unexpectedly died, but when you are a 14 year old girl, far from home, finding out on the phone is the worse way possible. I was all alone. The people around me where, for all intent and purposes, strangers. They tried to comfort me, but I wanted to be home with my mother, sister and brother. I yearned to be held by a loved one. On my way home from Wyoming the following day, my Grandfather, making his connection from Washington, caught up with me at the Denver airport. As soon as I saw him down the corridor I broke out into a run, flung myself into his arms and clung to him sobbing. At last I had someone to share my grief with. Within a few hours I was home surrounded by the ones I loved with a large gaping hole in my heart. As these thirty years have passed the hole has gotten smaller, though, if it hasn't closed up yet, my guess is, it never will. I suppose that's the price we pay for love.