Why I still buy a round of drinks in honor of my dad

I miss my dad most this time of year. My dad’s birthday is Nov. 25, but for as long as I can remember, he made a bigger deal out of the Marines Corps birthday on Nov. 10. He’d go into his favorite bar and buy a round of drinks for everyone in the place.

Now I do it, in honor of him and the Marines.

It was at the Silver Pony Bar & Grill in south Phoenix where my dad played pool, danced to country music and drank draft Bud Light, and it is there that I feel him, almost hear him over the jukebox.

I see my dad in the Marines who meet me there, men who didn’t know my father yet still make the trek across town every year to be with his grown daughter on this day.

At the Veterans Day parade along Mill Avenue in Tempe, I feel my dad in the beat of the patriotic music played by marching bands, see him in the posture of the veterans walking the route and those watching from the curb.

I see my dad in my son on the curb next to me, the startling blue eyes and the way he moves, almost hear him in Sawyer’s voice saying “thank you” to veterans who stop to salute the vest he holds with my dad’s medals.

David John Bland retired from the Marine Corps in 1979 after 21 years of service. He retired to Arizona, where he was better known to his friends and on softball fields and horseshoe pitches as “D.J.”

It’s been 20 years since he died of cancer. He was 58. I was 33 and not ready. When someone you love dies, well-meaning people tell you that it was for the best. That he is in a better place now. That time heals all wounds. They are wrong.

Maybe it’s just that I look for him more at this time of year.

When my dad died, the grief was blinding at first, and then mind-numbing. It left an ache in my chest that I’ve gotten so used to carrying around I don’t feel the weight of it so much anymore. But it never goes away.

I never stop looking for him.