Now, eight years later, it's still raw for me. It makes me angry more than anything else. When that unforgiving frustration seeps into me, it consumes me. It used to control me. In this time, the pain of missing my father has only deepened, but my appreciation for the 17 years I had with him continues to grow as I become able to recall more and more memories of him. Tragedy had buried certain tattoos on my brain, but time is revealing them — and it's beautiful. I've also learned to love my friends and family members who have waltzed around me, not knowing if I've needed a hug, a punching bag, an ear, or space.

The topic is so damn depressing that I've tried for years to let everything related to it live in a dark, untouchable space within me; I’m almost ashamed that this had to be part of my narrative. But the truth is, when all of the lights are turned on, my father's death reveals itself as a fierce part of my framework. It is just as much a part of how I learned to grow up as the moments when I rested my head on his chest or fell asleep listening to his voice.

That doesn’t change the fact that it’s total living hell not knowing who killed your loved one. You go to places within yourself that you hope to God — is there one? — that nobody else ever has to go. I do have faith in something. I don't have forgiveness; I don't want it. I have a tall, handsome, Staten Island-bred, train-loving, funny, caring, brilliant human to call my father, and he will always fill that role in my life and death.

Around this time last year, I went into the family room and cried on the sofa while my mother was upstairs. I didn't want her to hear me; I was missing my dad a lot. She started walking down the stairs, so I frantically wiped the tears from my eyes and pulled a blanket over my head. She nearly ran into the room.

"Dana! Dana! You're never going to believe what I just found. I think it's a message for you."

I looked up and my mom handed me a piece of yellow legal pad paper that I had written on as a child, when I was still learning how to spell. I had decided I wanted to learn how to write, "I miss you from heaven" — totally normal, I know. In that moment, on the sofa in my childhood home, my eyes fell upon something that made me feel like my dad was talking right to me. Resting next to my sloppy attempt, my father’s perfect penmanship spelled out:

"I MISS YOU FROM HEAVEN.”