The Arrowood In Me

I have dimples . Deep set, into what a girl always thinks of as, “too fat cheeks”.
Never really liked the dimples. They were the instant target of the little blue haired ladies at church that would home in on them and pinch the fire out of my cheek, while remarking how much they “loved dimples”.
My Dad told me once that I should be glad I had the dimples. I wasn’t really sure because he was also “blessed” with them and therefore I felt he could not offer an unbiased opinion.

The dimples come from him. A small part of the man that was my father, tucked forever and inexplicably into my puckered cheek.
Every time I look in the mirror, most times not really liking what I see, I see that tiny part of my father coming out in me. I am liking the dimples more and more. A tiny reminder. A wistful thought crossing my mind with each fleeting glimpse. My Dad. Still here in a small way, forever affixed to me.

That thought helps me sometimes, when I am feeling especially low.
Absence of someone you love is so hard to endure. Separation from those you would want to be with is hard. Death is so final and so in your face. There is no way to “fix” the hurt. It is there until you heal, whenever that is. Until then, you simply endure and try to keep living.

I know where the shell of what was once was my father is. I go there often and sit and visit with his spirit. I place flowers in remembrance at his graveside. My father is not really there..just the worn out shell that housed his ‘happy- most -of -the- time’ spirit. He has gone on to a better place..a wonderful place.

If you stand there, and let the wind and your thoughts carry you back…you can almost hear him whistling softly.
He would tell me..“Now, don’t you go to crying over me..we will be together again soon enough.”
"Now you, just get on with living."

And I am getting on with it, I just miss him.