Wow! Tomorrow marks 3 years since we last hugged, since you cheered the boys at a football game, or “stopped by” on your way to walk the Huntington Beach Pier.
Tanner started football again, and it reminds us of his first game, days before your stroke. Do you remember how he stood heads shorter than the other boys? Remember hootin’ and hollerin’ when he earned the Player of the Game that first Friday? You laughed like he’d been announced President of the United States.
I’m savoring the gift you had in celebrating. In honoring the small parts of routine. Of making a big deal about ordinary things. In making people feel like they are priority.
It’s spring, and everywhere we walk, orange blossoms remind me of your favorite boyhood memories of playing in the orange groves, and breathing in the deep, open spaces.
This week Bry had minor surgery and we found ourselves at Kaiser, the same hospital you had your kidney removed, the same place you were pronounced cancer-free. I sat on the 4th floor looking down at the parking lot I’d walked from, then up the elevator, to greet you out of surgery. It’s surreal to be in a place you once were and know you aren’t here. Even three years later.
And there’s something during this time of year that brings tears and a slothy exhaustion and instead of fighting it, I recognize grief as a journey I never get over, but learn to accept. Before the calendar indicates, my heart knows that you are missed. There’s still a massive Dad and Papa hole in all of us. Ty’s suddenly obsessed with our wedding album, pulling it out daily, and slowly turning, then staring at every thick page. I notice him pause at the photo of you playing the piano and he looks up with the wisdom of an old soul and says, I miss Papa.
Me too, babe. Me too.
( PC: Bryan Pogue )
And for today, we’ll head to the beach to savor waves, cheer the April air with coca colas, heave shoulders and celebrate your favorite thing- family time. Because when I pass, I hope to emulate your advice, Enjoy the Journey, Bek. Enjoy the Journey.
And so we are, and so we will. We’ll carry you with us always.
Love you, Fasha,