February is a month of honorific days as I remember my dad’s birthday and mourn his death, which happened within eight calendar days of each other. 

Dad has been gone for eight years now. I don’t believe what people say, that grief gets easier over time. Rather, I liken it to a patch of skin on your elbow that is chronically dry: you put lotion on it daily, but sometimes an itch burns to the surface and you scratch until it bleeds. Then you cover it with ointment and a bandage. You let the scab heal, but the dryness continues and your scratching leaves a scar. Maybe the lotion helps you more days than not, but the possibility of an itch is constantly under the skin.

So February is a month of scratching for me. I can see a photograph, find a book, have a flashback to my childhood that makes my elbow tingle and my grief turn to burning. I’m working on finding the balm of gratitude that will soothe the itch and transition my grief into something else so I can layer my skin in good memories and thankful praise for the 79 years we had with him.

Here is one of those memories…

I must have been six or seven when I started standing on the steps toward my bedroom and calling out to both Mom and Dad, “I love you.” I refused to move from those steps and feet ready for bed until I got a response. I would shout again with more emphasis: “Dad, Mom, I love you!”

They would holler from whatever rooms they were in, knowing full well that I was not moving up those stairs until I received their assurance that they loved me. No matter that they’d already hugged and kissed me good night. I needed them to say the words.

My six- or seven-year-old heart already knew that Mom and Dad loved me, but hearing them vocalize that truth was necessary. Words of affirmation have been part of my love languages from the start. Saying and hearing “I love you” remain necessary for me today. 

But, the most important part of this story is what came years. Between the ages of 19 and 21, I went through dark, challenging times. During a conversation, my dad told me something that stunned me: “You were the one who taught us how to say I love you.”

Saying “I love you” on the steps at bedtime came easy to me. Voicing my love for my family is built in my DNA. And I’d always known that Dad and Mom loved me. I guess they just didn’t say it often until their overly stubborn and immensely emotional youngest child insisted on hearing those three words.

Dad telling me that didn’t solve my problems, but it gave me a nugget to hold onto. He made me feel valuable.

And so, I sit here on this Sunday morning, drinking my coffee and sending a message out to Heaven: “I love you, Dad.”