love.

Dad has been on my mind a lot lately.

On the one hand, I am currently reading Cheryl Strayed's "Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail," which was one of the last books my dad suggested I read. In it, Strayed recounts her experience as a mid-twenty-something whose life has fallen apart (her mother died quickly and unexpectedly which then led to the disintegration of her marriage). She decides to do a solo hike from southern California all the way up to Washington. I have been gunning to read this book for months because of this simple knowledge that an article he sent me about Strayed was one of the last things he ever sent me in the mail.

Also, I found said article just a few days ago, folded up and tucked inside an envelope which displayed his distinct and jagged handwriting in big letters. I can't tell you how thrilled I was to find another keepsake with his handwriting on it.

The book itself was on my to-read list anyway but even if Dad hadn't suggested it to me, it has reminded me of him in numerous ways. He loved to hike, he loved finding secret spots in nature that nobody else knew about, he loved adventure. One of the places Strayed hikes through is near Lassen Volcanic Park which Dad took Taylor and I to for an outdoorsy weekend one summer. The book also (mildly) reminds me of Jon Krakauer's "Into The Wild," which I read in 2009. My dad loved to read but he hadn't read a book in years - he was more of a magazine, newspaper, radio kind of guy. After reading "Into The Wild," however, I gave him his own copy as a Christmas present which he said he started one week night and never stopped, reaching the last page in the wee hours of the morning before having to get up for work. The name Alexander Supertramp would frequently join our conversations from then on. (Side note: the "Into The Wild" movie was directed by Sean Penn who has a friend in common with my dad. Even though my dad never met him, he loved telling me stories that would start with something like, "I have the funniest story about Sean that I heard the other day....")

But I digress.

On top of all this "Wild" book business, yesterday was also the four-month anniversary of Dad's passing. I'm not sure when, or if, the thirteenth of each month will stop acting as a milestone but at this point in time, I think I just don't know how else to respond to the fact that he's gone. I can't talk to him. I can't see him. I can only count the days that have passed since I last knew he was alive in this world. Time does heal, but in strange and inconsistent ways. We have spent a third of a year without him. I'm not sure if this feels like a lot or little; I only know that we still have a lifetime to go.

Lastly, the most pressing and recent reason Dad has been on my mind: I bit the bullet today and got a tattoo in his honor(!). I've been wanting to get a tattoo of a Gryphon for years, but I'm not quite ready for that yet. A few weeks ago, though, I was digging through my wooden trunk that I keep filled with all sorts of keepsakes: postcards, birthday cards, ticket stubs, and more. I went through the entire stack - things I've been saving since high school - and pulled out everything and anything from Dad. I don't remember the exact moment I decided it but that day, I knew I wanted something in his handwriting as a tattoo. I selected the card he wrote me for my high school graduation. The last line says, "I love you very very much. Dad." The "love," in his exact handwriting from the card, is now forever etched on my forearm. It is a reminder of him, a reminder that he loved me, and a reminder that if you love someone, you should always, always tell them, because you never know when you won't be able to tell them again.

Fun fact: The irony of getting the word "love" inked on my arm on Valentine's Day is not lost on me. Today was also my paternal grandmother's birthday. My dad was close with her. I was close with her. This little twenty minutes of my life that I spent in a tattoo shop with a bald-headed, silver-toothed, fully-tattooed dude helped me connect to two of the most major losses I have ever experienced in my life. It makes for a damn good Valentine's story, I say.

Anyway. All of you out there either love Valentine's Day or hate it but at the very least, I think we can all agree that if you remove all the Hallmark and sugary aspects of the day, it isn't such a terrible thing to have to spend some time telling people we love them. I suggest you go and do that right now.

I'll start with my Dad, who I usually called on this day simply so we could talk about Gigi and wish her a happy birthday together.

I love you very very much, Dad.