I thought finishing senior year without my dad would be the hardest part. Then something deeply personal was taken from me, and I had to find the courage to reclaim it.
The auditorium was empty except for me and the folded note in my hand. I’d walked there straight from home the morning after we buried my dad because our house smelled of other people’s casseroles, and I couldn’t breathe in it anymore.
The auditorium was empty.
The paper was soft from being opened too many times. My dad’s handwriting was shaky, but the words were his.
“Keep showing up for your life, even when I’m not there to see it.”
I read it again. Then again. The stage in front of me was dark, and I sat in the third row as if I were waiting for someone to come out and tell me what to do next.
Nobody did.
My dad’s handwriting was shaky.
***
The funeral had been a blur of neighbors saying Dad was “in a better place.” A woman from two doors down brought a green bean casserole that nobody touched. By that morning, after the last person had cleared out, the only people left under the roof were me, my stepmom Natalie, and her daughter Brittany.
