Remembering

July 16th would have been my Father Wilson Nicholson's 61st birthday, but he died unexpectedly on May 5.

To say I am remembering him seems strange, because it is still hard to believe he is gone.

Even in this fuzzy photo from 1977 I can see that I have his eyes, and definitely his eyebrows (though I've been working on that).

He loved New Mexico and would eat green chile until sweat dripped down his face.

We used to say jokingly, "Tell us the time, but don't tell us how to make a watch," because his answers were so involved.

I remember how once he took me to work with him on the overnight shift at his air traffic control job, where he worked until he retired from the FAA.

I remember how Kate and I begged him to drive us to the Hard Rock Cafe in Dallas because when you are like 12 it seemed like the coolest thing ever.

I remember how well he cared for his parents before they died, even making sure they were always set up with a working computer.

I remember our last conversation, and how we talked for an hour about politics and the recession and the housing crisis.

Dad, I'll miss the quirky notes you used to write in cards.

I missed talking to you on your birthday.

I love you.