Tomorrow is the 17th anniversary of my dad’s passing.  His name was Peter and he died of a heart attack when he was 44.  I was 13.

Although my parents were not together, and had not been for several years, when he died, I still miss him.  I miss what we might have had, the relationship we could have built as I grew older.

I was lucky enough to have the most wonderful grandfather I could have asked for, but I still think of my dad often and hope he is up there somewhere, drinking a pint, listening to Don Mclean and telling bad jokes with his buddies.

Most of all, I hope he’s proud.