This morning there was no moving slowly, sitting quietly while I take my time drinking my coffee. My husband taking the morning to just be. My dogs stretched out on the sofa enjoying having us home together. I had somewhere I had to go and on my own.

If Dad were here and able to, he would have gone with me. He would have understood the importance. My family knows, it’s just not what they want to do on a Sunday morning. So, I went to meet a friend and co-worker. We had a rally to go to for the Post Office, our way of life is at stake. Our future, our pensions, our retirements are being threatened. More importantly those we serve every day, the ones who depend on us to deliver their medicine, their tax and Social Security checks need us to speak up. Our older customers who we’ve known for years that wait for us six days a week, even if it’s just for a bill in their mailbox.

Oh, how I wish my dad could have gone with me. This was so easy for him. He represented his co-workers with ease, knowing all the rules and having the self-confidence to stand up and speak out. Dad wasn’t worried about the consequences; he just did what had to be done. He was something to watch when he was younger, ready to help make sure people were treated right. Me? It’s not so easy. My parents had strong personalities and were at ease interacting with people. I on the other hand prefer the path of least resistance. My mother says I am always thinking six steps ahead of everyone else. I have already worked out the possible outcomes of any action I take.

It was overcast and grey when I left the house. Rain and cold winds had been forecasted, so I dressed accordingly. As I drove, I thought about dad and the times he did this kind of thing all those years ago. He always seemed to have his voice. It took me forty-five years to find mine and it became stronger the older I got. I met my friend, and we walked where the others were waiting. More people came and mingled around until it was time. Most everyone had on a shirt with the chosen slogan and carried signs that carried similar messages.

There I was surrounded by people, but still alone. I held my sign up just like dad would have done. He never strayed far from my thoughts. The rain started coming down and the wind was cold and blowing hard. At first it was just a few drops but quickly changed over to heavier rain. I pulled up the hood on my jacket to stave off the wind as the strong gusts stung my cheeks. My hands were cold and the sign I held became difficult to hold as the water drops soaked into the cardboard causing it to fall apart in my hands. It was time to go home. As I walked to the car and my friend went her separate way, I thought about that sign. I still carried that wet crumpled up cardboard. I’m not sure why.

Pieces of that sign just kind of disappeared. The parts of my world where my dad lived are slipping away on me. So much of his belongings had already been thinned out before he got sick with Covid. When he passed there weren’t many material things left. The time-share we enjoyed as a family most of my life, was damaged by Hurricane Ian and it’s slipping away too. The cost is too much to keep. It was the last thing I had of my dad. It was where we were all together and happy.

The tattoo I got after dad passed, still has the dragonfly that travels between heaven and earth. The watercolors are still vibrant and full of life. I can still read the “Love you” in mom’s handwriting. However, the “love you more” written in dad’s handwriting is becoming harder to read. The letters are merging together, losing their crispness. Little by little, I’m losing my dad. I’m trying to hold on to him but he’s slipping away from me. The world outside of my heart and my head is erasing him. He’s here in my heart and I keep rerunning the memories in my head trying to keep him here but …