i tried, really hard.
the door had a wooden placard with the words
Rev. Genaro Diesto, Jr. written in gold lettering. to my surprise, the door was unlocked.
i slowly turned the handle, entered, and stood there for a long time, arms crossed in the middle of the room. what used to be his room.
and i stared around at the chair he once sat in,
the desk he once wrote on,
the windows he used to look through,
the floor he paced around on,
the bookshelves now emptied of his theological books.
and i imagined him doing all those things. no, i
saw him doing those things. i
remembered seeing him do those things.
i even came across something he wrote.
The Pastor's Report. His comedic tone intertwined with a serious topic of conversation...that's how he always wrote. and talked.
and i tried, really hard.
i even closed my eyes.
but i couldn't hear his voice.
that voice that's full of authority and tenderness at the same time.
or his laugh.
that boisterous, make-you-laugh-too type of laugh.
and the more i tried, the more frustrated i became with myself for not being able to remember.
how could i not remember what he sounded like? if i sat here and closed my eyes, would i eventually hear him?
so i tried to cry.
i tried, really hard.
i even drove to his grave by myself.
sat by it. spoke to him. waited in silence for that moment where i would break and tears would flow.
but it never came.
why didn't it come? did i not miss him anymore? of course i did.
my brother cried today. so did my mother.
so why couldn't i?
because feelings aren't like clockwork.
on some days, remembering that my dad died hits me so unbelievably hard.
on other days, it's a simple nostalgic smile.
on others still, the thoughts come, but the emotions do not.
but everyday, every single day, i think about him.
and that's something that'll never be too hard.
