Sometimes I still get mad at the doctors, even though it’s been a year and a half. I miss you so much, and the more that I grow up the more I wish you were here to talk to me. They should have found the cancer, all that time ago, that summer before Pete and I started dating, but they kept prolonging things. And then Mom called and told me, and I called you right away, and you weren’t even phased. You just said that things were going to be alright, and when my Papa says we’ll be ok, we will, and so I believed you. But I cried, and I didn’t go to work that day.

I’m a little mad at you, too, because more than anything, I wanted to be able to talk to you about Peter, and have you know him and talk to him before we would get engaged. We’re not yet, but it’s coming. And I wanted you at my wedding, ever since I was a little girl, and I wanted to dance with you, but you won’t be there physically, and that hurts me still. I’ve been thinking about it a lot today for some reason, and I feel so guilty for not giving you flowers. I know you’re not there, but still. The headstone is there finally, and I want to go see it. I wish the cemetary didn’t close before sunset, because I can’t make it there after work. But you would be so proud of me, and all the things I’m doing. I’m even driving with both hands on the steering wheel most of the time, because I know you’d want me to be safe. Focus is a little old now, but I make sure that she doesn’t fly.

After you died, I had a dream about you. We were at some sort of church, and you were walking around with Grandma, but you looked the same way that you did when you were in WW II, in uniform and everything. But you didn’t talk, you just smiled a lot, and gave me a hug, and then you were gone. Why can’t I dream about you again? You fought so hard, and I don’t understand why God would take you with cancer. It made you all small and shriveled, and I don’t remember you like that.

We’re all growing up and I wish you could be here for it. And I think Uncle Charlie is having a hard time too. He’s getting small, like you did, and I don’t know why or what I can do for him.  I’ve been here for so long and I dont’ see him enough, but he tries to compensate for being you. 

I miss you Papa, and I’ll never think that it’s fair.

Love, Lindsay