It has been eight years today since my dad died.
So far, I've honored his memory by:
- sneezing at an outrageous volume while suffering the seasonal allergies I inherited from him
- completing graduate school
- cultivating patience (he was always telling me to slow down)
- being oddly anxious about getting places on time
- becoming a professor for a few years (he loved teaching more than anything else)
- visiting delis in New York
- humming to myself as I do chores around the house
- eating as many cookies as I want, whenever I want
- becoming closer with my brothers and nieces
- never ever touching a cigarette
- being there for others who have experienced loss.
After the first couple of years, I began to understand what people meant when they said "may his memory be for a blessing." His memory blesses me daily as I go about my life. When I do things that remind me of him, and when I make choices that are better than the ones he made, I'm honoring his memory. His death is no longer a raw wound in my heart; it has become one of my favorite scars.
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