progress?

A sustained mystery to me within this process is how to define progress. Perhaps it's not even necessary, but I seem to be pointed in a preferred direction when I feel like I'm doing "better." Maybe I didn't cry quite as hard today. Or as often. How about this one: I could remember you, Dad, and smile, laugh a little bit, rather than weep. Is that good? Better? Healthier? Not sure why I have this preoccupation with progress regarding the grief-thing, but it does seem to be a persistant desire. And yet, the more I read, the more I study, the more I allow myself to feel, the less I understand, and the less confidence I have that true progress is something that's even attainable. Life moves on, that's a given. Driving to the airport in crazy traffic on a recent morning, I was struck by how many aspects of life expect me to be back in the game so quickly. Can I screw up at work fo awhile because my Dad has been ripped from my life forever? Not likely. Maybe I can just be a rotten, disengaged father for some time. Nope. How about a vaction from husbanding, or being a friend, son (to Mom), or brother? No way. If you saw me as I was boarding that flight, you'd chalk me up as just one more young executive-type with great shoes climbing up the ladder of life. Don't be fooled! On the inside, my heart is crushed, my eyes water oh so often, and my soul aches for the loving and tender grip of my father's hands in mine once again. Look a little more closely next time. I do. I see different things in strangers eyes now. I wonder, and often, I know. They are struggling too. And I'm reminded that I am not alone on this journey, and for a moment, I find comfort in that. But I'll always miss you, Pops. Always.