I should be used to it by now. After all, my father passed away peacefully on an August afternoon 30 years ago.

My sister and I had been in Texas for over a week. Our mom was upset that we’d come, thinking it was the end. She might have been tough, but she didn’t want to lose her best friend. My mom loved hard, but quietly, shoving it behind bravado and razor tongue.

My dad? He was solid and eternal. He fought hard to live- defying his doctor’s predictions of 6-12 months, then 3-6 months by living 3 years. 3 years of doctors cutting pieces away, of chemo and radiation treatments, 3 years of stubbornly, and quietly hanging on to his dignity and his life.

I could tell so many morbidly funny stories about that time in Texas. Gallows humor is my family’s jam. But that’s not where I am today, so they will wait in the vault until I’m ready to let them go.

My dad wanted to make it to 60, to live longer than his own father. And he did. By 5 measly months.

He’s been gone from my life longer than he was in it.

That fact will never minimize the impact he had on my life, the many lessons he taught (when I chose to hear them), the absolute love he had for his family (when I chose to accept it). He taught me to never judge anyone by appearance or assumptions. He gave me security. His sandwich shop was my home base, my safe space, and a big chunk of my world. He was the affectionate parent, the one not afraid to show love, the one who taught me to hug.

He was far from perfect.

But grief has a way of easing the sharp sting of past mistakes. And even 30 years out, it grabs me on days like today, making me long for just one more chance to tell him what he meant to me.

A lot can change in 30 years. I grew up. My child grew up. He is on the cusp of becoming a father himself. (Yes, all those people who listened to me declare I would never be a grandmother are watching me gleefully eat those words). My nephew has a wonderful family of his own.

I know the chances that he would have lived to 90 were slim, but I wish he were here to watch his grandchildren grow up, know them as adults, to hold his great-grandchildren in his lap and sing to them the silly little song he sung to my child, to my sister’s children.

So much has changed in 30 years.

And yet the longing remains.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Wherever you may be.