Right after Pop died a friend of mine shared his own experience with losing his father. This was something that happened frequently after Pop died and I appreciated it even when I grew weary of the gesture and was done with depressing stories of loss and grief. But there was something simple about this particular story, the point of which was nothing more than to prepare me for what was coming, to let me know that I would, in no uncertain terms, miss my father every single day of my life.
It has been two years since my father died, 730 days of missing him, some of those days with a smile on my face, others, like today, with heavy tears.
Here he is with my Aunt Kate, clearly having a great time (which was generally his goal, and an admirable one at that):