January 13th -

Dad, it’s been a whole year – 365 days since your warm body was here on Earth. As I type, I’m watching a fire your wife built in the fireplace you loved so. The one you wanted built with Arizona River Rocks. The one you would throw coffee cups and remotes at in anger. It’s where I remember our last real hug – where I squeezed your weak body on Christmas and somewhere in the back corner of my heart, I thought I should grasp onto this moment for the rest of my life.

I told Katy that this year had simultaneously been the longest and shortest year of my life – she stole that line and used in her own public tribute – something you would approve of. It’s true – it’s all been foggy - I have no fierce memories from January – August.

The hole in my body - the one that was ripped the second you died has had air pass though it, bitter, cold air - it's felt cavernous but been invisible to most. 

Dad, there are so many things to tell you.

 Mom, the best gift you ever received, is a force – which you knew – but you don’t know that she has faced the stark loneliness of life without you head on. She’s become a landlord – much to her dislike, a champion trivia player, begun playing the violin, learned how to use Netflix, and given 2/3 of your incredible amount of dress shirts away. She’s flown on a plane 3 times since you’ve been gone and is sassier than ever. Mom took a Tupperware of your ashes to the holy ground on which you met and fell in love – Brewton Parker College – and scattered them there.

Katy and I talk on the phone constantly now. It’s a bit out of control, but we can’t help it. Katy and Clive scattered bits of your burned body and clothes in Nevada, Arizona, and South Africa. Katy is growing her counseling business and is boldly stepping into new vocational opportunities. Clive ironed the clothes you wore at your funeral. He insisted. He has also had some new opportunities at work and both he and Katy long to tell you about their new experiences.

Ryan graduated from Georgia Highlands and is now attending West Georgia to earn his degree in accounting. He’s paid off his rental house and his truck. Clearly, he got his sound fiscal sense from mom. He’s also gained more responsibility at work, and he’s helped mom manage the properties.

As all five of us scattered your ashes around the land today, we told stories about you and leaned into our shared joy and pain. 

Dad, I hate that you died alone. Not really alone, I guess, but – really, I hate that I didn’t visit you in the hospital more. That’s what you showed me my whole life – to show up for people when they needed you and even when they didn’t. You always showed up. I hate that because of your death; I know this truth in my bone marrow.

You allowed yourself to be inconvenienced by others – our time is our most precious non-renewable resource – and you freely gave yours away. You sat with and prayed for strangers and friends at bedsides in hospitals and homes. You took people to lunch who lived 2 hours away. You took donuts to potential business associates, second graders, and retirees. You mailed me a box of treats from Mac’s bakery during a particularly harrowing time in Grad School, and when I needed more, you flew up to Philadelphia to hug me and tell me it was going to be okay. You hated that you missed my senior awards ceremony in high school because you took a friend to a medical procedure, but I didn’t mind. I knew you were doing what was needed. When I started learning more about the world and wanted to see her, you sold your own processions to make sure I got to do those things, and when I came back with strong, sharp opinions, you let me have them. I didn’t cut you much slack – I wanted you to be perfect – to be learning about and championing all the things I cared for. I too often let our identities get tied together – wanting to will away all the things I saw in you I did not agree with. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it was so hard to see you as another human along the broken, beautiful, brutal journey of life and not as my strong father.

Dad, I carry the ways you formed me always. Your exuberant, extroverted personality, penchant for bags, love of celebration, dramatic nature, and advocacy for those you care for – I have those too.

 I’ll take you with me.

One of the first lucid thoughts I had after your death was that it wasn’t enough – I didn’t have enough of your stories and wisdom and teaching – but I do. Katy, Ryan, and I were given such a gift to have you as our father – the one to teach us to open our hands, hearts, and eyes to others and the world.

I’ll keep writing about your dad. I love you.

Erin