In honor of the seventh anniversary of my Dad’s passing, I wrote him a letter. I am sharing this today, hoping that it may resonate or provide comfort to someone else who is also grieving. – Liz
Dear Dad,
It’s been 7 years. 2,557 days since the last little bit of you slipped from this world. I remember sitting next to your bed, studying your hands because they were the only thing left that still looked like you. I tried so hard to memorize what they looked like, worried one day I’d forget. That image is blurry now. But, I still remember the way it felt to hold your hand when I was little. It felt the same when we danced at my wedding. And the familiarity was there when I held your hands in your last days when you no longer looked like the strong, healthy Dad I knew all my life.
Several times this year, I wished you were here to give me a high-five, to hold my hand, or to pat me on the shoulder and say, “when one door closes, another one opens.” But, mostly I wish you were here to hold my kids’ hands crossing the street during a walk, to help them with their ice cream cones, and to catch them when they jump in the pool.
It’s hard to teach preschoolers about someone they’ve never met. It’s hard to share your personality, your presence, your guiding light. It’s hard to teach them to love someone they don’t know, but I’m trying my best. I want so bad for my kids to feel a connection with you. To have a relationship with you. To love you. I still cannot grasp the fact that they won’t have the same grandparent experience that I had with your parents. There is still a piece of my heart that may never heal knowing my kids will never truly know you.
But, we talk about you. I share stories about you. I repeat your sayings, point out pictures, and of course we eat lots of ice cream.
And they ask about you.
Sometimes it’s a little blunt – “Are you sad because your Dad is dead?”
Sometimes, it’s sweet – “We really miss Grandpa Billy, don’t we?”
Sometimes it tests my faith – “Why did God want Grandpa Billy in Heaven and not in the world?”
Sometimes it just simply breaks my heart, “Why did Grandpa Billy die before we were born?”
It takes me back to that last day, holding your hand. I asked you what I was supposed to do without you. You replied, “life works itself out.” If there’s one belief that you instilled in me, it’s this: life works out exactly the way it’s supposed to. Whether fair or not, planned or not, there’s no time to sit around and complain. You can’t get frustrated and throw in the towel. You have to keep moving forward, because life works itself out whether you like it or not.
That lesson stuck with me this past Election Day when things didn’t go the way I hoped for, planned for, worked my tail off for – and that’s a moment I wish I had your guiding hand. I remember sitting at the kitchen table at 4 AM staring at my phone wishing more than anything to text you our most commonly texted question to each other: “Walk?”
I miss our walks. They were long and thoughtful. They were needed in times of frustration, sadness, or stress. They were welcome in times of happiness, excitement, and celebration. They were just as special when there was no reason at all except the blessing of a father-daughter walk. I remember the excitement and competitive talk when we’d walk to the pool together when I was a kid. I remember the compassion you’d show me when we’d walk after a hard day at school. I remember the deafening silence, but the comfort of your presence when we walked the afternoon of 9/11. I remember your patience and encouragement during our very slow walks following my appendicitis. I remember the walks when you’d quiz me for tests, when I’d share my swimming goals, and when we’d evaluate different prom dress styles. I remember discussing college choices, job opportunities, and moving in with Jonathan. I remember the walks after you were diagnosed and I remember the pit in my stomach when I sensed one of our last walks would, in fact, be our last.
You were there, you were present, you listened, you shared stories. You’d ask me questions, clarify my thoughts, and help keep me focused. You taught me how to make life choices all on my own simply by guiding my thinking. Maybe you were preparing me for a year like this.
Life works itself out. I took my walk.
I keep moving forward. And we keep creating new memories without you. Jonathan and I do things with our kids that you would do with them if you were here. We watch White Christmas and Mary Poppins and we listen to Jimmy Buffett. We color in blue for St. X and purple for Elder and we cheer on the Bearcats. We go swimming, we eat lots of grilled cheese, and we hang with our cousins. We eat dessert before dinner, pray the steps on Good Friday, and go on fun adventures exploring downtown. We go to women’s sports games, events that (still!) honor your legacy, and every so often, we’ll order a Bud Light Lime. And – of course – we take walks.
Your grandkids love to take walks. Mostly in the stroller and sometimes on foot. Just like you, they’d pick the walk over a drive any day of the week. And I love to take walks with them.
My kids will never know you like I did. They will never know your voice or what your hands felt like to hold. My kids will never form a bond with you the way I did. I can’t control that. I can’t get tripped up on that painful realization. But, I can make the most of what is left in my life. I can be that parent you were. I can be present. I can make little traditions to make them feel special. I can prepare them for a future filled with happiness and heartbreak and everything in between. And I can take them on walks.
I believe one day I’ll walk beside you again. But for now, I’ll walk with my kids and hope you’re smiling down. You are missed and you are loved. And when I count my blessings, I count you twice.
Love,
Liz (aka A.G.)
Dear Dad (Year 1)
Dear Dad (Year 2)
Dear Dad (Year 3)
Dear Dad (Year 4)
Dear Dad (Year 5)
Dear Dad (Year 6)
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