Noting the differences

The changes are subtle.

There has been a shift at meals, tectonic plates of sorts, in which my brother has taken my father's usual place at the head of the table (one of the few old-fashioned things he lived by) and we have been re-shuffled to figure out ours.

When asked for an emergency contact number on the bus, I used to give my father's, the only phone number I know. In my stubborn denial, the times I have traveled after he passed away, I have given my own. Basically, if I my bus were to crash, my phone would ring and ring to no avail. This time, for my final trip, I looked up my sister's and gave it, accidentally memorized it, and now have 10 days left to use it.

I could go on.

During my last day working as a teacher, the pathetic fallacy seemed like a joke and there came a point were I felt ridiculed by the divine (were I to believe in that), or at least by nature. The children were sweet, the staff were gracious and I cried. Not necessarily in that order, but almost. Walking home, laden with gifts and a sweaty wad of emotions, I sat down on a bench for a minute because I was overwhelmed with him, the reminder of him. The way the light hit the trees, the beauty and the simplicity of everything around me. I felt grateful like I know he always felt grateful and I could not write to him to let him know.
Of how much of him is in me.
Of how I've never felt like his daughter more strongly than I do now.
Of how proud I am of that.