Eleven years

It's an odd feeling; like being caught between two timelines. One in which you have missed your father for eleven very long years, and one in which the week before his passing and the events after feel like they happened yesterday. 
I don't miss him as fiercely as I did before, but I miss him in all the things I experience that he won't know about. And as there are more of these new experiences, it feels like I'm turning into this person he wouldn't recognize.
I don't believe in heaven as a final resting place. I'm happy for all those who do, but I have never felt it a credible solution to the end of a life.
I know I won't see him again, but I'm holding on to the idea of him being around. In the flowers I grow, the veggies I cultivate, the birds I feed, the squirrels I so dearly love. I guess, in a way, I am creating my own heaven for him, one from which he can see me try to live my happiest life.