Eight years

It's now been eight years since my father was killed.

I still miss him. As I noted the other day, grief never entirely goes away, at least not for me. Time dulls the sharp edge, but every once in a while a sneaker wave shows up.

I'm slowly beginning to move forward on some things. Following up on the FBI file search. (Incidentally, I think most of y'all didn't see the entry last November in which I talked about the CIA file about him.) Dealing with some long-delayed financial stuff. Filing away some papers about the legal stuff around his estate (such as it was), which have been sitting in stacks of paper ever since 2005, waiting for me to be able to cope with them; it turns out they're nothing I needed to deal with, so they'll go in file folders and probably some day I'll recycle them.

(Edited to add: Also in that stack was a victims'-rights pamphlet, which among other things explains how to sign up to be notified when the person who committed the crime is moved from one prison to another. I found myself wondering about Nancy, where she is now, what her life is like. But I decided that's not something I'm ready to look into.)

I was going through an old box of papers a couple weeks ago and found my folder of math contests—dozens upon dozens of math contests from high school and college, mostly practice ones in preparation for real ones. And along with them, pages of notes and answer keys that Peter wrote; I think he enjoyed doing them at least as much as I did, maybe more.

There are still a bunch of boxes of his stuff in the garage, boxes I mostly haven't opened since I brought them home in 2005. Most of them are soot-damaged books; I imagine most of them will end up thrown away, but I haven't been able to face that. There are also some papers and stuff. And I think his go board may be in there too. Some day.

Anyway. I don't have anything in particular to say on this anniversary this year. Just marking the occasion.

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