It was my dad's birthday yesterday, and for the first time since he died, I didn't cry on his birthday. I didn't think of him one bit. I spent my day yesterday in pain, and watching Downton Abbey (which is an oddly addictive show).
It feels so good to know that after all this time, it is, in fact, getting easier. I am actually coping. I'm moving on.
I spent a lot of Saturday thinking of my dad. Mostly because I was playing his favorite game: pool (or billiards, depending where you're from). I was kicking ass. I only lost one game out of 5! Pretty good for me.
And all the times I thought of him on Saturday, it was the quiet reflection of good times shared. None of this overwhelming grief of things lost.
I can think of my dad without crying. I can tell stories of him to strangers and family alike, with a smile on my face at the memories.
I think I've finally passed through all of the stages of grief. I've reached acceptance.
And it didn't hit me like a slap on the face. It crept up on me silently, so as not to spook me, I think.
I no longer feel there's a void in my heart to be filled.
I still miss him, of course.
But that's okay.
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