Waiting for Daddy

I was going through the photos on my computer and I found these. I took them the morning Husband was due to arrive home from Buffalo. The girls waited in the window for Daddy. Something strikes me about this image. Seeing them there staring out, bodies bent with anticipation and longing, is both wonderful and devastating. Wonderful because it is a depiction of deep love. But devastating because this is so often how I feel. Like I am waiting for Dad.

When Husband arrived home, he parked his suitcase by the door and the girls climbed him like a tree. He hugged them, and Little Girl, and me. It was a happy moment.

But I will not have that happy moment, that anticipated reunion. Dad will not come down the steps, the loose change clanking in his khakis, flashing his mustache-obscured and incomparable smile. He will not fumble for his keys while he hums some opera, and come through the door and capture me in a hug.

I know these things. This is reality. But still, on some level, I will always be that little girl waiting, my legs curled under me on the windowsill of my world.

It's been almost three years. Will this ever change? I hope so.

And I hope not.

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Is the death of a loved one something you ever get over? Do you ever find yourself waiting for the return of those you've lost? Do you think it makes sense that I both want my wounds to heal and remain open?