Mourning Girl Part 3

Today on my Facebook wall, a tiny square photo of my dad keeps popping up. I feel haunted in an amicable way. A glitch in the system, I'm sure, but still. I figured it was time to write this post.
When I was little I thought my dad was the Incredible Hulk. He could lift me with one hand and spin me with my head so close to the ceiling I could taste dusty sheet rock.
We were not close. I remember trying different tactics over the years, but my father was not available for a daddy/daughter relationship. He was only peripherally interested and involved in my life, even into adulthood, even into grandparenting.
Still. He was my dad.
The other day we were sitting on the couch listening to Willie Nelson singing Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys, a song my family loved and sang with gusto when I was a kid. Before we quit singing. And smiling. And talking. I'm sure it was always a roller coaster for my parents, but to me it was like watching a decaying food or a plant wilting. All that possibility, hope, and focus whithering away into this shell of a family.
Anyway, as we listened to the song I had a flurry of memories of my dad. Bringing home Snow White cake toppers for a birthday, singing "I musta been a beautiful baby..." before church. Telling us he was going "catting". Laughing. Just being there. Not on a fatherly way, but there in his chair, all of my life.
I am sure I began grieving him after the divorce. Dealing with what is, acceptance, playing the hand I was dealt cleverly and compassionately: this has been the work of the last decade or so of my life.
In other words I make some fucking incredible lemonade.
In the hospital I listened to song after song. Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, Winter by Tori Amos, I'll Fly Away by Gillian Welch, Time To Move On by Tom Petty, Rapture by Antony and the Johnsons, and every day I listened to my friend Katy's classical music show on the local public radio station. Music and love thawed my fear frozen heart and as my dad drifted into his ativan induced sleep, I cried and cried. Quietly in a chair, in the cool dark hospital room. So quiet and private, like being in a chapel.
I think I feel sad for the girl who crawled up on her dads back while he lay on his stomach on the floor, who curled up and draped a u haul blanket over them both. Who fell asleep that way. Who made up nicknames based on horror movies watched together, who TRIED. And failed.
To know the whole story of a hard relationship, to know that there are no more memories coming, ya get what ya got, it is heavy karma.
I am working on being okay with having had a hard life.
I miss my dad. I missed him so long before this.