Dad,

It was five years ago today that you made the transition from this plane to the next. January 28th sometimes comes and goes with little or no fanfare. Sometimes I don't even remember that it was the 28th until I see the calendar on the 29th. But no matter how often I think of you, your absence is always felt, always tough.

A lot has happened in the past five years. Since 2003, our country and the world have gotten into quite the predicament. You died, literally, as Bush made the case for the Iraq War at his 2003 State of the Union speech. And five years later, as Bush makes his final State of the Union speech, and as 3,900 American service members have died, I'm not so sure that our country or the world are all that better off.

But in that time, we've also seen the birth of a new form of post-partisan politician...politicians who seem to be more worried about getting things done than about what party they belong to.They're getting elected everywhere...Virginia, Missouri, Montana. And there's this young, energetic, and completely inspiring politician from Illinois that you would have been completely energized and inspired by. You always used to talk about JFK and Bobby Kennedy and how they inspired you. Barack's the closest we've come (and are likely to come) to harnessing the promise of those two young politicians.

But that's the macro. Now on to the stuff that you really cared about.

In the past five years, you gained three new granddaughters and one grandson. You gained 1.5 daughters-in-law, then lost the .5 not long after.

Luke and I have both graduated college from your alma mater and have gotten decent paying jobs. Your eldest daughter graduated seminary and was a minister at a nice suburban church in Virginia before she decided to take a brief sabbatical to be at home with the kids more. Katie's taken her family (literally) all over the country as the CEO of the coolest mom and pop operation you've ever seen. Holly and Jerry remain busy watching their two boys hit baseballs out of the park. Nancy own a motorcycle now, something I'm sure you'd be completely overjoyed by. Your offspring have been quite busy.

The past five years have been a bit of a haze for me. Your death really set me into a tailspin of sorts, through which I have recently started to pull out of. I've always seen you and my mother as being my two anchors. It seemed that no matter what was going on in my life, you two were always the people that I longed to talk to most. And I have to say that it really sucks that you're not there anymore.

And it isn't like we spoke all that often. I know I spoke to you a couple weeks before you died, but before that, it had probably been before Christmas since I spoke to you last. And our conversations were always somewhat short, and in some ways, superficial. We'd talk about how much the Cowboys sucked or what was happening with my car, but rarely not much more than that.

But through all of that, you really anchored me into the belief that I was "doing alright." You always had the ability to center me and make me feel like I was doing well, even when the things I was going through indicated otherwise.

Becoming an adult is hard. It's hard work. And I've come to realize that you didn't always equip me to become an adult in the way that I would have wanted. But I feel that I'm finally getting there. And I only wish that you could see me now.

I'm a father now. And I am just now starting to completely, 100% without a doubt, realize that you were my teacher. And I can sometimes see the world from a similar perspective that you did.

When I look at Parker on her changing table, I sometimes have a very strong sense memory...or maybe it's deja vu that I've experienced this before. I get the strong impression that I'm looking at myself on that table and that I'm looking through your eyes. Or when I'm tired beyond belief and Parker starts crying again...and I get frustrated to the point that my face turns red, yet I still find the patience to rock with her slowly in her rocking chair, whispering soothing words of relief into her ear, I sometimes have the impression that this has all happened before.

Five years...

I tried writing this earlier when Anya was in class and I was watching Parker at home, but Parker started crying and I had to go tend to her. And I think that would have pleased you to no end. You were always a person who didn't like to relish in the past. You lived for the moment. So I think that you would have preferred me to go be with my daughter than to sit at a computer and write a letter to you.

It's weird to think that tonight marks the 5 year anniversary of the worst night of my life and that tonight when I hold my daughter in my arms will mark the best moment of my life. In the way that only fathers and mothers know, each day with my child is better than the last. There is no better feeling for me than to hold Parker on my chest as she sleeps. And I suspect that there is no better feeling for her than to be there.

I miss you and dream about you often.

I love you,

Matthew