It's odd. Today I feel completely different. The shock has worn off, I think. I understand. My father is gone. Maybe it's the fact that our relationship was rocky, but I don't feel like sitting around and brooding about it will help anything. He's gone. I've said goodbye. I think perhaps I said it the moment that I saw him lying there on the bed. It's something that I'll remember until the day I die, too. What's left now is to bring his body to its final resting place, and then begin life without him. The road won't be easy, but it's one I have to tackle, and am ready to tackle. I know he loved me. I know, even when we were at each others' throats that he was saying the things that he said because he loved me. He just didn't know how to express it. He was not an open-minded man, nor a particularly compassionate one. He was the way he was, and he couldn't help that. I know he loved me, and I forgive him.