Seven rules for dating my teenage daughter

When the communal, outward mourning ends and life appears to go back to normal, that’s the worst part — when the world goes on, not noticing the gaping hole that’s been left.

It’s how we put together a new role for ourselves in this irrevocably damaged world that shows how we really grieve — much more than those first few days of sobbing.

I stopped wearing all black at some point in college, but a part of me held onto that sadness that had kept my father close.

But planning a wedding, being deliriously happy and in love, there was no denying that I was moving on.

I cried not just for the end of that perfect weekend, but for the next week, when we’d be back in different cities, on opposite sides of the country.

I cried for the coming summer, when I’d eat ice cream alone and wish he was there walking and joking with me.

Those last words of fatherly praise and advice suddenly became as precious as Moses’ tablets; words from beyond, all there would ever be.And at twelve years old, pretty much my whole life was in the future.* * * In preparation for my father’s funeral, I asked my mother to take me to buy some black clothing.When I heard that my father had died, I collapsed in tears on the living room floor.I wasn’t crying because he wasn’t there right then.

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