This is a letter I will never send, because unfortunately nobody has figured out how to send letters to loved ones in the afterlife.
Every day I think about the accident. I think about walking into that hospital room and seeing you, bloody, covered in grass with your head swollen three times it’s normal size. Every day I think of how I held your hand in your final moments and told you how much I loved you, even though you were unconscious. Every day I remember when the doctors unhooked all of the tubes and took away the respirator, leaving you to draw your final breath. Every day I get on Facebook and look up the two people from the incident report that ran you off of the highway, and every day I want to send them a message or go to their house and scream at them, just to let them know that their reckless driving cost me the most important person in my life. They, and their cars, came out of it all without a scratch. While you, my dad, my whole world, suffered severe head trauma from being ejected out of your truck that rolled four times and into the median.
I spent the better portion of my childhood worrying that you would die from cancer, but you beat it. You were the bravest, strongest man I knew and you never complained about a thing. You came through the treatment and had been healthy for the past two years. Healthy and happy. You were loved by your grandchildren and children… but most of all, me. As far as I was ever concerned, you were the only important person in my life. You were the greatest dad, and the fact that you will never see me get married or have children destroys me every day. But what destroys me the most is the fact that you should still be here.
I love you, I love you, one thousand times I love you. I dream about you all the time, and more than anything I want to hug you and hear your voice. I can’t believe I never will again. I can’t believe you’re gone.
Your Youngest Daughter