Papa

I miss my Papa. Horribly. It’s weird. I mean, I only got to see him a couple times each year before, but I already miss him so so much. So many small things remind me of him. I have a blanket that I kept from the Hospice House and another one of Papa's blankets. They are folded together in my closet, and when I am sad I curl up in my bed with them, and cry. They are all I have left of my Papa. Blankets and memories. Sunday I transplanted a plant in a small pot from his funeral into a beautiful, larger pot. It was much more emotional than I thought it would be. I am a crier. Everyone knows that. Now, my neighbors probably do too, as I sat in my driveway with a bag of soil and a plant, crying with every scoop. I wish there was somewhere I could go... to mourn... to remember. I have looked for a nice memorial park, or memorial garden... but none are fitting. I even went to a local cemetery, hoping to find a bench in a flower garden... nothing. It's just hard. And just when it starts to get easier, it gets harder.