When nothing means everything.

We just got home from a ton of errands.

A quick lunch.

A pop-in at a friend's.

Selling some of my books. Buying more used ones (not for me - well - not more than one for me).

Grocery shopping.

For some reason I bought a can of Planters peanuts today.

My husband was talking about almonds at work, and so I bought a small can of peanuts (they're flavored, but still ...).

I wasn't really sure why I bought them until I cracked open the can.

And I knew immediately.

What a silly reminder, and a reminder just the same.

Planters peanuts remind me of my dad.

It sounds weird, right?

Something about the salt and the scent and the taste, and pull it all together and boom.

Wham.

Dad.

I have not really written about him that much lately.

I've sifted through my grief regularly.

Daily.

Hourly sometimes.

It depends.

I think I'm in a stage of denial where I'm thinking he's not really gone.

That I'll pick up the phone and he'll answer when I call.

But realistically I know that's not true.

I know that will never be true again.

But still. I know this. But still.

I let my heart drift and hope.

Wishful thinking.

Dreaming.

Because I may not mention him every day.

And it is true that some days are harder than others.

But I miss him every single day.

With my whole entire being.

My whole heart.

Even the parts that know they need to move along and breathe - while I grieve quietly.

Silently.

Grief has no timeline.

There's no "reach this point and it's finally over" when it comes to loss.

It is what it is.

Stupidest saying on earth, right?

I mean - of course it is what it is - it can't be what it isn't, right?

Anyway, a can of peanuts made me think of my dad today.

And remember how very much I miss him.

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