In honor of the eighth 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 has been 2,922 days since I last held your hand. So much life has happened in 8 years without you. You’ve never known me as a mother, you’ve never seen me on this career path, you don’t know many of my friends, and hardest of all – you’ve never met my kids.
I’ve lived so much life, navigated numerous challenges, and made countless decisions without your guidance and motivation. I was scared of what life would be without my rock. And now life seems so normal without you here. Time is bittersweet.
I remember when you would talk about how proud you were when you saw me do something with confidence, when I held my head high, when I believed in myself. This year, I finally understood what you meant as I beamed with pride watching my daughter walk into school on her first day of kindergarten. All I wanted was to send you that picture I took of her – head held high, not looking back. You would have loved it.
More often than not, thinking about you brings fond memories. But, there are still moments when I am unprepared for the gut punch of missing you. This year was my kindergartner’s first Grandparents Day and you weren’t there. As she grew more and more excited about the festivities and surprises for the day, I could feel my own sadness deepening. Grief can be lonely, especially when it feels like the world keeps moving forward, completely oblivious to the gaping hole I feel in my heart in moments like these.
I want to raise kids who see the bright side of life – I don’t want to steal their joy by pointing out what they are missing. If my kids never knew you, how could they miss you? That’s a truth that’s weighed heavily on me.
They don’t know what it’s like to work on new puzzles with you on the living room floor Christmas morning. They’ve never walked the Opening Day parade with you, going backwards so they could take in all the festivities and beat the crowds to Skyline. They’ve never drawn pictures for you to hang on your office fridge. You’ve never asked them to help “push” the car up the Alpine hill, a simple game that made car rides fun. They’ve never joined you for a walk to Graeter’s for an ice cream cone, or hiked through Ault Park on a Sunday afternoon. The thrill of the first jump into the pool each summer with you is something they’ll never know. And I can’t help but feel that loss – for them, and for you.
They don’t know how to miss you. But I love that they are curious about you. You would find humor in how your grandchildren are grasping the concept of death and learning about the grandfather they never knew.
After seeing monuments on vacation: “Did Grandpa Billy turn into a statue when he died?”
After the death of their pet fish: “Did you flush Grandpa Billy down the toilet, too?”
After watching cartoons: “Did Grandpa Billy go POOF when he died?”
When looking at the clouds: “Does Grandpa Billy have wings and fly around heaven?”
One of my favorite questions my preschooler asked about you came on a random day heading into school. He always holds my hand walking up the steps to his classroom.
“Mama, did Grandpa Billy hold your hand so you could be brave?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Now you hold my hand so I can be brave?”
“Yes, I do.”
Thank you for holding my hand when I needed you. Now I can hold my kids’ hands when they need me.
I love you and I miss you. And when I count my blessings, I count you twice.
Love,
Liz (aka A.G.)