Today is the eight year anniversary of my dad’s death. I’m happy(?) to report: it doesn’t hurt the way it used to. The last couple years, I’ve been struck less by how much I miss him and more by how much he has missed. I notice big things he missed, like my wedding, and smaller things, like books he would have enjoyed. Since his death, I’ve traveled on five continents, my brother and I both moved abroad (in opposite directions), and my mother retired. I also spent several years in Boston working at the Museum of Science, and my dad would have thought that was the absolute coolest job. I…
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He’s Dead So I Can Say Whatever I Want About Him
Do you ever come up with titles for your unwritten memoirs? The only reason I’m writing this post is because the title struck me as I was walking home. Its subtitle will be “And Other Pithy Essays About My Family.” It will be my second book – a slightly more sophisticated follow-up to the fresh voice readers fell in love with in my debut, It Starts and Ends in Barcelona: A Memoir of Grief and Travel. “Holliday’s work reads like Wild if Cheryl Strayed were snarkier and had a less interesting story to tell…” –New York Times Book Review I’m taking a writing class and today one of my classmates’…
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Let’s talk about my dead dad
(Note: As the title would suggest, this post is not about travel, nor tea, but rather, my dead dad. If you’re interested, read on, but if you were looking for travel or tea, come back next week.) Tomorrow is Friday, June 14th. The two-year anniversary of my dad’s death. And this Sunday is father’s day, which is not a large, in-your-face holiday, but its closeness to my dad’s death feels a bit liked being kicked when I’m already down. It’s been a rough week. Every task has seemed wildly difficult, and I’ve been on edge. My mother and E have been patient while I’ve stormed around the house on the…
