March 13th and Fathers Day
Dad,
I didn't write anything public for your birthday - but it happened nonetheless. I knew I wanted to be home - in your spaces and places. I wore one of your cowboy hats throughout the day and while mom and I ate breakfast at Linda's, a man I did not know sat down and said, "I know whose hat that is." He proceeded to tell us stories about you and the support you gave him.
We then went to Walmart and a lady in her 50's or 60's complemented your hat. I said, "Thank you, it was my dad's." She said, "My dad had a hat like that too." I told her it was your birthday and she said her late father's birthday was coming up. She asked for a hug and we chatted a bit more. We hugged once more before leaving that holy space of remembrance in the baking aisle.
Mom and I took treats from Mac's bakery to the guys at Statham's Tire and the "gals" at the post office. The ladies at the post office said you were their favorite, always showing them what you had ordered. They told me you would beg to take them all to lunch. They reverently said y'all would laugh together - which my favorite writer calls carbonated holiness.
We then went to Al's (your best friend) grave and spread some of your ashes. You would've liked this because it's very illegal. We watched the train go by and sang Al's favorite hymn, Amazing Grace. Mom said she may use this spot if she needs a physical place to go and be with your memory.
It would have been your 65th birthday. In my truthiest moments, when I see people in public who are seemingly older than 65, I think why are they alive? Yikes. Not my best work.
I'm a tactile griever - which is not surprising. I need to be with your stuff and your people and your town. I've basically adopted your wardrobe - minus the Crocks. Every piece of new clothing I've purchased is plaid or hunter green. I watch your closet like a hawk and when mom told me it was time to clean it out - it was not pretty. Clearly, she's farther along in her health journey than me.
Parallel Grief is messy and complicated. There's fear, and shared experience, and laughter, and tears, and longing, and hurt, and unmet expectations - it mirrors all of life. With all of that - here we are together traveling on.
Fathers Day
Yesterday Mom, Katy, Cami ( Katy's friend), and I sprinkled some of your ashes in the Etowah River. It was a comedy of errors. You would have loved watching it. Cami and Ryan helped us find a put-in that wasn't too populated, but it happened to be on private property so we parked just outside the locked gate and walked to the river bank where people were having a private gathering.
Mom and I cut our legs on a re barb while walking to the river. We couldn't find a spot low enough to reach the water and we caused a traffic jam with our parked cars outside the gate. Cami asked the man who was possibly in charge if we could spread some ashes by the river. He said, "I'm not supposed to let you, but go ahead." He then proceeded to open the gate for his others guests who our cars were blocking. There were people swimming down river from where we spread your ashes. Who knows what they thought. They may have gotten bits of ash on their body or in their suits - so who knows what kind of adventures you'll have with that.
I wrote you a Fathers Day card last year and this year. I don't know how long I'll continue to write one, but for now, it feels right.
The words written in the 2018 card:
You say yes - yes to ice cream , yes to adventure, yes to traveling, yes to the narrow path. You're a yes man - but in the best way. Thank you for showing me the sweetness and magic of this world - of life. Thanks for always being there - at the middle school dance, in the kindergarten classroom, in Philadelphia, at Barnes and Noble in college. You were always there. You showed us how to show up for people. I hate that you're not here to read this. I miss you always. I see you all over. You're in songs and food and conversations. Somehow, even though you're not on Earth, you're still showing up. Thank you for loving me so well that I feel you still. I'll carry you with me wherever I go. I love you.
Cheers to you, dad. Thanks for being wild and for marrying mom so she could steady us all.
Love you,
Erin
I didn't write anything public for your birthday - but it happened nonetheless. I knew I wanted to be home - in your spaces and places. I wore one of your cowboy hats throughout the day and while mom and I ate breakfast at Linda's, a man I did not know sat down and said, "I know whose hat that is." He proceeded to tell us stories about you and the support you gave him.
We then went to Walmart and a lady in her 50's or 60's complemented your hat. I said, "Thank you, it was my dad's." She said, "My dad had a hat like that too." I told her it was your birthday and she said her late father's birthday was coming up. She asked for a hug and we chatted a bit more. We hugged once more before leaving that holy space of remembrance in the baking aisle.
Mom and I took treats from Mac's bakery to the guys at Statham's Tire and the "gals" at the post office. The ladies at the post office said you were their favorite, always showing them what you had ordered. They told me you would beg to take them all to lunch. They reverently said y'all would laugh together - which my favorite writer calls carbonated holiness.
We then went to Al's (your best friend) grave and spread some of your ashes. You would've liked this because it's very illegal. We watched the train go by and sang Al's favorite hymn, Amazing Grace. Mom said she may use this spot if she needs a physical place to go and be with your memory.
It would have been your 65th birthday. In my truthiest moments, when I see people in public who are seemingly older than 65, I think why are they alive? Yikes. Not my best work.
I'm a tactile griever - which is not surprising. I need to be with your stuff and your people and your town. I've basically adopted your wardrobe - minus the Crocks. Every piece of new clothing I've purchased is plaid or hunter green. I watch your closet like a hawk and when mom told me it was time to clean it out - it was not pretty. Clearly, she's farther along in her health journey than me.
Parallel Grief is messy and complicated. There's fear, and shared experience, and laughter, and tears, and longing, and hurt, and unmet expectations - it mirrors all of life. With all of that - here we are together traveling on.
Fathers Day
Yesterday Mom, Katy, Cami ( Katy's friend), and I sprinkled some of your ashes in the Etowah River. It was a comedy of errors. You would have loved watching it. Cami and Ryan helped us find a put-in that wasn't too populated, but it happened to be on private property so we parked just outside the locked gate and walked to the river bank where people were having a private gathering.
Mom and I cut our legs on a re barb while walking to the river. We couldn't find a spot low enough to reach the water and we caused a traffic jam with our parked cars outside the gate. Cami asked the man who was possibly in charge if we could spread some ashes by the river. He said, "I'm not supposed to let you, but go ahead." He then proceeded to open the gate for his others guests who our cars were blocking. There were people swimming down river from where we spread your ashes. Who knows what they thought. They may have gotten bits of ash on their body or in their suits - so who knows what kind of adventures you'll have with that.
I wrote you a Fathers Day card last year and this year. I don't know how long I'll continue to write one, but for now, it feels right.
The words written in the 2018 card:
You say yes - yes to ice cream , yes to adventure, yes to traveling, yes to the narrow path. You're a yes man - but in the best way. Thank you for showing me the sweetness and magic of this world - of life. Thanks for always being there - at the middle school dance, in the kindergarten classroom, in Philadelphia, at Barnes and Noble in college. You were always there. You showed us how to show up for people. I hate that you're not here to read this. I miss you always. I see you all over. You're in songs and food and conversations. Somehow, even though you're not on Earth, you're still showing up. Thank you for loving me so well that I feel you still. I'll carry you with me wherever I go. I love you.
Cheers to you, dad. Thanks for being wild and for marrying mom so she could steady us all.
Love you,
Erin
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