Skip Died

Did Grandpop die? He's not in the hospital anymore? He was too sick? Did they put him in the ground?
Last spring my father passed away, after nearly a year of battling lung cancer. The idea that he is no longer accessible is perplexing to me and I wonder if I haven't truly excepted the fact that he is dead. Usually in bed, laying down naps in day light or in the night I think about him. And only at those moments do my eyes become glossy and disoriented with tears. I imagine him sick, in the bed at the hospice - no longer jolly with wispy white hair, but emaciated with a patchy buzz cut done by "Jack of all trades," Mr. Bernard his roommate with the sincere approval of the Unquakerly Quaker. I remember his finger touching my hand, a gesture that mean not to worry and the appreciation in his eyes for all that I did to make him happy. I still seek his approval in the things that I do, because I will always be Skip's daughter. His death entered me as unsettling feeling relief. Never did I whale, not because I am not supposed to, but it simply it wasn't there. No where inside did this lye. So, I just have moments that I naively say, "I can't believe he is gone" and let out a few tears. These moments don't last long - usually I am distracted with my own anxious thoughts about cleaning something or cooking something. . . I miss my dad a lot. I miss impromptu excursions to the Delaware service station for a meal at Bob's Big Boy; road trips with the CB radio; our weekly therapy sessions with Dr. Me; the tales of Cousin Hortence and the cancer planted in her mailbox by BIG TONY; and most of all "Heeey" and a big chuckle. He was my dad, my protector and simply knowing that some body thought I was wonderful.