{Originally published on Chicken and Cheese.}

Not too long ago, we bathed The Poo while chatting about all the people who love her.

We listed off all her grandparents, and then spent time explaining how we, her parents, were also children.

“Your grandma and grandpa are my mommy and daddy,” Mr. Chicken told her, as he sluiced shampoo from her hair using a small container of water. “And meema is Mommy’s mommy.”

Suddenly, without warning, The Poo realized a new truth about our extended family.

“Mommy!” she exclaimed, the gears in her head grinding away. “You don’t have a daddy!”

I winced, her words hitting me as hard as any blow. My father’s been on my mind of late.

This is, you see, my season of loss.

*****

Even as we welcome a new soul to our household, my mind wanders – dreadfully – to this date on the calendar. Four years ago today, at 3:30 in the afternoon, my father drew his last breath.

Each year I think the hours will come and go like any other, just a pair of numbers and nothing more. I believe I will keep house and tend children, spending my time as I would on an ordinary day.

But this day, this terrible day, will never be ordinary again.

The immediacy of my grief has faded; that much is true. No longer do I wake in the heart of the night, veins pounding with dreams the color of blood. No longer do I wake each Aug. 26 precisely at 4 a.m., the time my telephone rang with the news that an ambulance was ferrying my father to the emergency room.

But when August begins to wane, a bruise rises to the surface, tender and easily irritated. The warm weather and the slant of the sun prompt recollections I’d rather forget – walking my parents’ dog in the late afternoon the week before my dad died, while they were away at The Mayo Clinic; the hope I felt when the doctors reported that the cancer was dead; the terrible tremor in my dad’s voice the last time I spoke to him on the phone.

I called to tell my mother I wanted to come out to Minnesota. I was on vacation, and something inside urged me to get on a plane and be with them.

With him.

My mother insisted I stay home. I was five months pregnant and enjoying my first travel-free break from work in many months. I was sleeping late and spending time with my husband.

But that urge. It was there.

As I debated purchasing a plane ticket, my dad called me from his hospital bed and weakly assured me he was fine.

I knew he wasn’t, in my heart of hearts. But I turned a deaf ear to that voice inside my heart and stayed home.

***

I told The Poo that yes, I did have a daddy.

“My daddy lives in heaven,” I told her. “We can’t see him anymore, but he is our special angel. He watches over us, and he was with you before you came out of mommy’s belly.”

I tell her this because my faith dictates it be so; I tell her this because my heart needs to believe it to be so.

My daughter looked up at me with my father’s eyes. She blinked once, and I watched her thinking about what I said.

“Why?” she asked.

Why. A question I ask myself in the middle of the night. Why did my 54-year-old father ignore the warning signs of colon cancer for years? Why did he refuse a colonoscopy that could have prevented his death? Why did the doctors at the prestigious New York City cancer center fail to spot a tumor on his pancreas despite near-monthly PET scans?

Where did I find the strength to watch him die? Why did I have to?

Why.

“He died, baby,” I said. “He was very sick, and he died.”

Her face crumpled and I regretted my honesty. But what else was there to say?

So I swallowed hard and smiled. I told her that it was OK, that I was OK. I told her I had lots of funny stories to tell her about my daddy, her grandfather. That he was a funny man with a big belly who loved chocolate, just like her.

I told her she has his eyes.

***

Sometimes she brings it up.

“You’re daddy isn’t dead, mommy!” she cries.

It upsets her. It makes her think something will happen to me. Or to her own father. It makes her dwell on death and it is inside her brain like a worm, a worm I set loose with my words. With my story.

Just two days ago my daughter dissolved into tears and insisted, out of the blue, that my father was not dead. I tried to reassure her, but all I could do was hold her until her sobs dissipated.

I buried my face in her hair, and felt her strong heart against my chest.

How I wish I could have spared her this terrible, premature knowledge of loss. How I wish my own pain didn’t show in my face.

Because I know it still does, on this day, the final day of the dying season.

***

I miss you, daddy, every single day.

Editor’s pick by Catnip at Catnip and Coffee. Mrs. Chicken was one of the first blogs I ever read (years ago!), and it’s still the first one I jump check when her feed arrives in my reader. She has so many amazing posts in her archives that I had a hard time picking just one to share with you. Her words of heartache, and joy, homesickness, and fear are well worth clicking over for. Once you start reading, you won’t be able to stop.