- 365 days
- 52 weeks
- 12 months
- 4 quarters
It's also 525,600 minutes.
If you're familiar with the musical Rent you'll know this song straight away. You'll probably be humming it by now. You're possibly at this part:
If you're not familiar, let me assist you. Don't worry, the rest of the class will wait while you catch up.
When Rent first came out, I tricked my best friend into going to watch it with me. We were two of four people in the movie. As they started singing for the second time in the first 10 minutes he said accusingly "This is a musical?" Yes. Yes it is. I believe he and the only other man in the theater bonded over being dragged to see it.
Fast forward to it being released on DVD. I made my sister watch it. She loved it. I am surprised I hadn't been banned from my parents house by then, because every time I came over, the movie (or soundtrack) was playing. My father was about as appalled as those two men in the theater had been.
I can still vividly remember him walking through the house mockingly singing the words "525,600 minutes" with a disgusted look on his face.
Christmas rolled around. And my sister and I, being the most amazing children he could have ever been graced with, made him a mixed tape. We get into the car Christmas night and he puts the CD into the player and starts to reverse out of the driveway.
"Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes."
"Seriously?" He hits next.
"Five hundred twenty-five thousand."
This time he hits next with a bit more fury and spits out "This better not be the whole thing, you twerps."
"Five hundred twenty-five."
*Next*
"Five hundred twenty."
*Next*
"Five hundred."
Window down, CD flung out of the vehicle. Cue fits of laughter from everyone in the vehicle except for him.
So it seems like an apt way to remember the last year of our lives. Tomorrow will be 365 days since my father took his last breath. It will be five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes since I held his hand and told him I loved him.
I'd rather measure it differently.
in daylights, in sunsets
in midnights, in cups of coffee
in inches, in miles
in laughter, in strife
I can clearly remember there being a time I never thought a daylight would come without my father. Or the first time I watched the sunset after he died. There have been so many of them since he left. Daylights that broke where I broke down. Sunsets that were so breathtaking they made me remember when he'd throw me on his shoulders so quickly I thought my breath would stop.
The midnights continue to come. Even though he isn't there to ask me to (tell me to) make him a cheese plate. Or him changing the channel to the home shopping network where he proceeded to never purchase me anything from. They say that they get easier. Time heals all wounds. I don't know if that's true. Instead of it only being a few weeks since I heard my dad's voice it's been almost a year.
Luckily, however, there have been numerous cups of coffee, too. From friends, family, co-workers, people you barely even know. And they listen. They console. They laugh with you. They share stories. They play Hungry Hungry Hippo or Cootie with you. These moments are beyond precious. To everyone who has shared a cup of coffee with me over the last five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes - thank you. Thank you for meeting me on Christmas, the day before my Dad's funeral. Thank you for stopping by my house early in the morning with a cup of coffee. Thank you for bringing a cup to my work. Thank you for sharing a mug of homemade coffee at my house. Thank you. For helping me across the inches.
We inch our way through the first few weeks. They fly by, but you measure them in inches. In tiny milestones. In the first shower you took after he died. In the first time you went grocery shopping. The first time you make dinner. The first time you realize that your life is going to go on. Even if it doesn't feel like it. And the inches turn into miles. Without you even knowing.
Without thought you realize you're at the 3rd quarter of the year since your father passed away. And you only got there because of everyone around you. Because of your family, your friends, your resolve to move forward. Guts you didn't even know you have make those inches turn into feet and into miles. And maybe into kilometers. But I'm American and we don't get the metric system, so I'm not even sure about that.
Miles down the road you find yourself laughing. I have read articles on grieving where people say they never thought they'd laugh again. Fortunately, I never thought that. We laughed on the way home from the hospital they took Dad to. We called my Dad the Grinch who stole Christmas. Well - *I* did. My sister and Mom just let me. Because they know there's no stopping my wit and charm. I choose to call it that so that it doesn't sound as creepy.
There's no way to measure your strife through a year. Believe me, I have tried. I've tried to be angry, tried to be bitter. But I can't. I feel lucky. To have had the year I had. Life is unfair. It's full of trials and tribulations. It's full of life and death and endings and beginnings of all sorts. My life has changed in ways I am just figuring out, in ways that aren't what I thought, in ways I never wanted. But I have people who have shared sunsets and laughter. I (with help) have inched my way into miles. My daylights, my midnights, have been full of coffee, laughter and friends...and love.
Seasons of love. Seasons come and seasons go. They change. They ebb and they flow. But the last five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes have shown me how much love I had for my father. It's proven that it will only get stronger - that it will never fade. It's opened my eyes to how many people loved him. And it's shown me how many people I have in my life that will help me through the inches, through the miles, through the strife - and they're always nearby with a cup of coffee and a laugh. No matter if it's daylight, sunset, or midnight. That part of the season always stays constant.
There will always be love.
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