Losing my memory

When I was a little girl, my dad used to call me something. I had a nickname that only he used, a special term of endearment. A year after he died, I asked my mom what it was because I couldn't, for the life in me, remember. She looked at me in a strange way because it was a weird question, completely out of the blue, and told me. Two years later, I am ashamed to admit that I've forgotten again. That's the thing with my memory--it fails me. Especially when I try to grasp something too hard.

It has just been a few years since he passed away but I still don't remember my time with him that well, it's fading so fast. And sometimes that freaks me out. While doing a story for Better Homes and Gardens on Father's Day, I talked to people who had to grow up without their biological father (I always get sad stories), and it was then it hit me that I'm growing old without mine. I was still in college when I lost him, so he never got see me working for a job, driving my car, travelling for work, and basically turn into the spoiled woman (promotion from spoiled brat) that I am today. It kind of sucks because I know for a fact that he was the proudest of me (sorry bro, I win). And to make things worse, the past is being washed off too, like a name on the beach. 

So this one is for you, Dad, Pops, Papa. I remember I called you hundreds of names, I'm cool like that. This is my time capsule for you. May be some years down the line when I'm all rich and successful, I'll read this (I'll be a better writer by then, I promise), and think to myself, "Oh yes! I blogged about my dad once. How stupid of me, right pops?" And then I'll write another post on how foolish this 'personal diary on a public platform' business really is. May be this way, I'll preserve a part of it, a part of us, however small. 

Till then, I'll try to remember what that pet name was. Or, I can ask mom, but she already thinks I'm getting old. Can't let her think my best years are behind me, can we?