When you move on, you carry a pack

There are some rocky edges in life that can’t be completely smoothed by the waves of time.
I was told I’d never fully get over losing my dad. I can’t remember who told me, but it was true. Movie channels were doing Robin Williams marathons the day my dad would have turned 64, so I wrestled with death all day.
I wondered what makes people depressed. I wondered why I was sad after dad died, but not depressed in a self-destructive, self-medicating or otherwise detrimental way. I don’t know how these things work. As humans, we don’t get answers to all the questions we ask – questions about faith, reason, purpose and why in general. Open-ended questions with only reasonable theories for answers are a part of being human.
But there is misery in questions and the unfinished business of a life. Had cancer not weaseled its way into our lives, my dad and I would have made up for lost time while I was in college and as I was starting my career in California. We had plans. Hunts. Fish. The outdoor opportunities that prompted he and mom to move the family from Colorado to Alaska was about to be re-explored.

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