Dad.

Our family is grieving again, so here I am. Two Tuesdays ago, D’s dad passed in his sleep suddenly and unexpectedly. He’d been active, vibrant, and living his life up to the last. He would have been a young 74 next week.

In a strange coincidence, I had been thinking about Mila the night before. I think of her routinely, but am at a point now where it doesn’t usually upset me to think of her. But that night in the shower, I found myself remembering the emptiness of losing her. I remembered how after an initial period of shock and silence, how strong my urge had been to document everything I could about her. I remembered my horror at the realization that, since no one else had known her, it fell entirely to me to tell the stories of her life; and if I failed her in that duty, it would be as if she had never existed. This blog exists because I could not bear that she would leave no trace on the world. And at the memory of that feeling, I did break down, hard.

It had been an unremarkable day and I still wonder why that memory came to me that night, seemingly unbidden. I stood in the shower afterwards wondering, apropos of nothing, if it would be any easier to grieve someone who had lived a full life, full of family and friends who could help carry the weight of remembering all their stories. Then I went to bed and thought nothing more of it.

Now on the other side of that night, I can say, no, it’s not any easier. Different, but not easier. Everyone Dad touched in life has their own stories about him; those, I don’t have to carry. But I knew him as another dad to me and the grandfather of my kids; those are the stories I carry. Those are the stories that I have to put out into the universe. Here they are; let them be remembered, for ever and ever.

To the best Dad and Grampy our family could have been blessed with.

We still can’t believe you are not here. We keep waiting for you to walk through the door with your big smile, ready laugh, and a big hug for the kids.

You doted on Isla. She had a seat on your lap whenever she wanted it, and ready access to your iPad. She could always convince you to go swimming with her, no matter how much you protested. Like you, she loves planes, and her toy box is full of toy planes that you picked out for her. Every time one flew overhead, you could tell her what kind of plane it was and where it was going. She loves biking too, just like you, and you were so proud of her progress this year. I’m quite sure you spent hours researching the perfect new big-girl bike to get her for her 5th birthday next month.

You had a soft heart for Jake, too. When he was a wakeful young baby and we were staying at your house before we moved into our own, you let Jake sleep in your office. You would always clear out of there at 5:30pm, carrying your computer and all your papers, so that he could go down and D and I could get some sleep too. You did this for months. And when Jake was older, your office was like heaven to him. You let him press as many buttons, rifle through as many drawers, play with as many gadgets, and steal as many golf balls as he wished. Jake’s toy box is full of trucks you picked out for him, the newest ones from just this past week. When Isla got to sleep over at your house without Jakey, you sent a set of trucks for him with a note explaining that you didn’t want him to feel bad about being left out of the fun. What a sweet Grampy you were, to worry about that even though he was still too little to understand that he was missing out. I am so glad that I saved the note for him.

When Mila was stillborn, you showed up in San Francisco the very next day. You read all my most difficult blog posts about her in the very dark year that followed, and during a time when most people did not know what to say, you did. You always offered such loving reassurance and support. I will never forget that.

And Schmorgy, well, we all know Schmorgy hates pretty much everyone but he always, always loved you.

No matter where in the world we were living, whether it was Boston or San Francisco or Spain, you were always ready to jump on a plane to come see us and the kids. And it was always a fun adventure. When you visited us in Madrid, you talked up everyone in the neighborhood and made friends with everyone from the local bakery employees to the guy at the mobile phone shop down the street, and somehow seemed to know all about the neighborhood goings-on, even though you barely spoke any Spanish. I am so glad that we came home in time to give the kids the last couple of years together with you. I just wish that there had been more.

You and Mom raised two wonderful men. I see you in D every time he thinks through a strategic or logistical puzzle, and also when he drops everything to help a friend or family member and makes sure everyone is taken care of. I see you in the kids every time they get excited to see a plane flying overhead or are able to give us turn-by-turn directions from point A to point B. The two of you created a loving and welcoming home that is always at its best, loudest, and most fun when it is filled with grandkids, cousins, nephews and nieces, aunts and uncles, sisters and brothers, and a crazy dog or two. We lost you too soon. There is a hole in our hearts and we miss you incredibly.