His pink sweater still hangs on the back of the chair in the dining room. I still miss my Papa more than ever. Last year at this time was the last time I had seen him...
Anytime I hear a variation of his name, "Charles" or "Russ," I get a lump in my throat after I look for him and realize he's not here.
I know he'd be so proud of me, interested in my last trip, asking me questions, worrying about me a little. I know he'd say, "Running fifty bloody miles? You're crazy." But I know he'd give me another sloppy kiss on the cheek and a hug.
Times makes it better, but in a way, it hurts more, because they're further from you.