It's been seven years since I last kissed my dad good night. Seven years since he last watched my sister and me show our animals. Seven years since he last came home from work and played frisbee with Phoebe, our dog. It's been seven years since my dad passed away.

I can't even remember what he sounded like anymore. I forget the color of his eyes, though I believe they were the same as mine. I don't even know if I told him that I loved him before I went to bed the night of October 22, 2011.

I remember the last picture we took together. It was Saturday, September 17, 2011 — the day of the Wyandot County Jr. Fair Livestock Sale. My sister and I had both taken our calves through the premium ring, and even though they weren't grand or reserve champions, he somehow convinced the photographer to take our pictures.

We got those in the mail after he died, but I don't know where we put them.

When we found him the morning of October 23rd, it felt like the world should have stopped. It was my sister's 11th birthday and three days before my parents' 20th wedding anniversary.

Our dog, Phoebe, was never the same. While she loved my mom, my sister, and me, Dad was her master. She'd just sit on the lawnmower and gaze off into the distance mournfully. She was heartbroken until the day we had to put her down because she was going into liver and kidney failure. I think her grief was part of the reason why she didn't fight the euthanasia. As my uncle said, we might as well have buried her with him.

Somehow, we moved past my dad's death. Life just went on without him and it keeps going on. The world just doesn't stop turning once someone dies, even though it feels like it should. That doesn't mean it isn't hard though.

Anger is a common feeling. Why didn't he listen when my mom told him to go to the doctor? How did the doctor keep telling him that his cough was “just allergies" when he had stage four lung cancer? You'd think no lung sounds would be a dead give away. Why didn't he get out of the hog barns when he had the chance? He could have gone back to school and become a veterinarian or an agricultural education instructor.

Seven years later and I'm still just so angry.

I'm also hurt. Someone told my sister, “Now you know what it's like to have your dad die on your birthday." My dad will never walk my sister or me down the aisle at our wedding. He'll never know his grandchildren. He'll never see us graduate from college. He'll never get to retire and grow old.

All these potential memories we were robbed of when he died. It still hurts so much, and I don't think it will ever stop hurting.

It's too late to go and change the past. I wish people would stop saying, “Oh, poor David; I miss him so much," because it's not bringing him back, and it never will.

All that's left are these memories that are fading. I really can't tell you what he sounded like anymore. I sometimes don't even remember what he looked like, even though I can tell you exactly what he wore practically everyday — collared button down shirts, jeans, and white New Balance sneakers.

I miss him, but at the same time, I have to move on with my life because life goes on. If the world stopped turning every time that someone died, it would never turn.

It's time to stop saying, “Poor David." We had our time with him, and now we have to live without him. Besides, if some of the people saying that actually truely cared, they would have showed him they cared during the 53 years he was alive.

Moving on doesn't necessarily mean forgetting (though the memory does fade). Moving on doesn't mean you stop caring or that you stop missing them.

It's been seven years and life has continued. I miss my dad more than anyone could ever know, but nothing will ever bring him back or change the past. It's time for us to move on.