There are moments, say at a Baseball game when the bases are switched out after 3 innings, when the thought runs through my head, "When I get home I'll ask Dad why they do that."
Or I drive the Prius and look down to see that the MPG is at 52 and I think, "I need to take a picture and text it to Dad and prove that I can get good MPG in this car too."
Or every time I walk by his computer.
Or when I walk in the door at the Tahoe house.
Or when I really, really, really want to talk politics with him.
Or when I go to make a change on the laptop and find the icon that says "Dad's phone".
Or I really need a Dad hug.
Or when I fill the bird feeders because he isn't here to do it.
Or I see someone riding their bike on the road and for just a moment it looks like my Dad.
Or when someone looks at me and says "I thought about you and your Dad the other day."
These moments and so many more continue to tell the story of my walk with grief. It's the daily reawakening to the reality of life without my Dad. A year and a month hasn't lessened the pain. A year hasn't healed the wound, though it's not quite as gaping and oozing as before. The healing continues.