I hate this week and have hated it for the past eight years. Daddy died this week, on February 1st, 2001. And it's still as fresh as ever. I drove up to the graveyard today, and somehow, LuLu made it all seem ok. When we drove in this morning, LuLu saw all the flowers and let out the biggest burst of surprise. She didn't know what it was. Had no idea. But her voice was so peaceful and innocent. I got her out her car seat, and for the first time in her 22 months, I showed her where grandaddy was. And she repeated his name as daddad. I heard the trees rustling and there was just quiet. But I could still hear daddy talking to me.
I am amazed how day after day, especially this time of year, I hear him. I would give a hundred zillion dollars to tell him what lessons he taught me. I would give a hundred zillion dollars to have a picture of our family. And I guess in a nutshell, that's why I do what I do. I never had the one thing that I wanted. Had everything else I could ever want. But I never had a photograph of daddy, mama and me. I missed the chance. Daddy didn't get to walk me down the aisle. But he walked me down the football field for the homecoming queen thing. And that's my most proud moment. Never has been because I won, but because I had my daddy there.
I hear that stupid Reba McIntyre song "The Greatest Man" it just tears me up. And it's pretty word for word true except the part where he never told her that he loved her. Daddy told me that every day. And I tell him I love him everyday, to this day.
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