This could go out to too many people: almost all of my family members, lots of friends, acquaintances too. But as soon as I read the topic of the post, I knew who I had to write it to: my father.
Some background (it's a somewhat confusing situation): My dad worked in the automotive industry for 25 years. But, with the recent economic .... valley .... he had to take a job in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I still see him as much as I can, and my mom and brother and I spend holidays in the South. We're a medium-sized happy family, but just split between two states: Louisiana and Michigan.
Dear Dad,
It's been just around 18 months since you had to move down to Baton Rouge. It's been a hard 18 months for us all - too hard to describe, and too difficult to see you be upset about putting us through it. We know you love us, which is why you took a job down in Louisiana. But I guess I never realized just how much of a bittersweet position this is.
On one hand, I'm so happy that you found another job outside of GM. When you were there, I could see the work was eating away at you - the long days turned into long nights, and your stressful surroundings made you age too early. I remember when you used to travel a lot; I remember hiding behind the chair in the play room because I thought that if I didn't say goodbye to you then you couldn't leave. But as soon as you'd leave, I would be so angry at myself for not giving you a kiss goodbye. After those trips, I would be so happy to see you again - Mom wasn't able to put me to bed. Now I know that if I don't say goodbye when I have the chance to, we'll still have to leave each other.
I'm not going to lie - this situation sucks. I hate being away from you, and though I realize that were would be weeks when you were working at GM that I wouldn't see you, it was still a comfort to have the chance to if I wanted to. I could always go down to your office and see you; you were a physical entity in the same place. Now you're a physical entity somewhere else. Though we never really had heart-to-hearts, we would still have our little traditions: history lessons on the way to the airport, midnight pizza and ice cream after a tough week, and those nights when I would wander downstairs and just sit and watch TV with you if I couldn't sleep. Now I listen to music on the way to the airport, because most of the time I'm going to see you. I don't get midnight pizza, because I can never finish it. And when I wander downstairs after tossing and turning in bed, the basement is silent, and the couch is empty.
It's the little things that I miss - the half dozen or so open Perrier bottles around the house, the smell of aftershave in the bathroom, and the familiar creaks of your closet doors as you opened and closed them in the hallway. It's the way you couldn't function in the morning without at least three cups of coffee, and the way you always read the New York Times over a bowl of cereal. I miss the way you would let me pick out your ties in the morning, and how you would always check on me during the night, even in high school, to make sure I was sleeping soundly.
I'm counting the days until I can see you again. And I know that, even when I leave, it won't be "goodbye," but rather "see you later."
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