She was doubled over in a fit of laughter the other day when she said it. I had just told her I wasn’t the best tickler in the whole world, he was.
“Grandpa John?! I don’t even know who that is!”
Four years. Today it’s been four years. It seems like yesterday, but the truth is, it was a lifetime ago. Her lifetime. Pink was just 5 months old when he passed away. Of course she doesn’t remember him. And she doesn’t know better than to say as much. She has no idea that her words are sharp. That they cut like a knife.
Big, on the other hand, he knows. He understands that I want him—I need him—to love his grandpa as much today as he did when he was alive. He was only 5-1/2 years old back then, and he aches to remember—still sleeping with his grandpa’s special pillow each night. Quietly carrying on my dad’s legacy of being especially kind to the kids who are handed life’s more challenging paths.
Recently I was telling Big and his friend a story about my dad. And while I don’t even remember what the story was, I’ll never forget Big’s response. “Yep, that sounds like him!”
Big’s words, Big’s actions, they rest in a happier place in my heart. Where my dad is alive and well. Where two of my kids still remember the man who spent his life adoring me, adoring them. Where I still remember him.
While I don’t want to force-feed my family memories, the truth is, I’m afraid I’m going to start to forget things if I don’t talk about my father. About who he was and how much he meant to me.
You see, I’ve found that for the most part, when a loved one dies, his flaws, the things that used to make you roll your eyes or grit your teeth, they disappear too. Because you totally let go, you stop talking about them. I haven’t spent a moment in the last four years thinking, “Thank goodness I don’t have to listen to him whistle when he gets frustrated any more!” I haven’t forgotten that my dad was imperfect, or tried to turn him into an accidental saint. But I simply want to honor that he was a truly great man, in spite of his flaws. To shine a light on the beautiful parts of his heart and soul—the ones that made everyone around him feel so gosh darn special.
And while sometimes the grief can feel like a weight I don’t want to carry any more, the idea of letting go of it feels even scarier. I’ve seen what happens when you let go, when you let things get lost in the shadows. It seems to me that in the raw, heightened emotions of grief, everything is more vibrant. Not just the pain, but the joy. The memories. The love.
So I allow myself to really feel the grief. To cry. To love. To remember. Four years later.
And while Pink may not have memories of my father, I could have sworn she was channeling him last week when she said some very different words to me. Words that floored me, because she had no idea the weight this particular Monday would hold.
“What happens when you get to be 100? Do you go back to being a baby?” she asked.
I answered with the words I learned years ago, when my dad was sick, “When you get really old, your body stops working. Your heart doesn’t beat any more and you die. You go away and you’re not here anymore. Like Grandpa, my daddy. He got really sick and his body stopped working. So he’s not here with us any more.”
Pink started getting teary and wiggling in her seat when she whispered, “Is that going to happen to us?”
“Yes, but not for a very long time. You’re only 4 years old. You have a lot of days left to live, so that’s why we have to be happy and make the most of every single day. Right?”
There was no hiding her great dimples, that were also my dad’s dimples, when she smiled and replied, “Yep! Even Mondays!”
So today, I’m going to make the most of this day, this Monday. I’m going to be a bit more gentle on the loved ones still in my life. I’m going to shine a light on the beautiful parts of their hearts and souls, rather than getting caught up in their flaws. Now. While they’re still beautifully imperfect, living creatures.
There’s no doubt in my mind that that’s what my dad would want, because that’s the way he chose to live. And I realize I have that choice too. Even in the grief.
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What a beautiful, meaningful post Amy. Thank you for sharing your heart, the process of your grief and the wonderful memories you have of your special dad. Thinking of you today my friend and praying you have more special, tangible moments of remembering him and the profound impact he had on so many. Sending big hugs. xoxo
Thank you so much for your lovely thoughts, Allie. I so appreciate your kindness. xo
Sending love and hugs, Amy. I understand. xo
Thank you, Rudri! And thank you for being brave first so I could follow your lead and share what was on my heart. You inspired me!
This is so beautifully written. I read it to my husband in the car and sobbed through the whole thing. What an amazing reminder to make the most of every moment!
Oh Britt, this comment made my day. Not because you were sobbing, but because this connected with you so powerfully. Thank you for letting me know. I truly appreciate it.
This is beautiful, Amy. Until I lost my Dad this past May, I didn’t TRULY understand what it felt like to lose a parent. Now I know. So your words particularly resonate with me.
I feel very blessed (and so do that) that Taylor had them in their lives until they were young adults.
You are keeping your Dad’s touch alive in your children’s lives. Through you . . . he lives on.
I’m so glad that your dad got to know and adore your kids for as long as he did, but goodbye is never easy. I think about how much my dad would have loved spending time with Sierra, and I can’t help but think he played a part in bringing her into our lives. We’re all so lucky to love her and each of you too!
oh Amy. lovely.
Thank you, first Amy. xo
Beautiful, Amy. I’ll never stop telling you how sorry I am that your dad isn’t with you anymore. The grief you carry must be massive. And that urgent need to keep his memory alive in your kids must be a tough thing to grapple with. You share your feelings so courageously, as always. My heart is with you. Your gorgeous soul does your daddy proud.
I have a very simple memory of your father from a Dad’s Day, long ago: He was a looker! A very handsome man — not just on the inside. 😉
Hugs,
Cam
Oh my goodness, this cracked me up. I love your sweet and spunky comments, my friend. Thank you!
What a beautiful post. I am so sorry for the loss of your dad. Hugs to you.
Thank you, Kim. I appreciate it!
That was a moving piece Amy. I love that you allow yourself to grieve. I believe that it honors your father and is a necessary release for you too. XO
Thanks Rachel. I know you can relate and I always admire when you share your truths and experiences. xo