Lucky 13

I’ve said for years that good things happen to me on Friday the 13th. Not because it was necessarily true. I wanted that to be the message I put out there.

The loss of a parent is a sliding door moment. There are now two worlds. One in which they hadn’t died and your life goes one way. One in which they do and your life becomes what it is, now, in this moment. The reality is every day we make choices that change the course of our future. Death is a much more profound one that isn’t a choice, it is a set up for making deeper and more impactful choices, usually.

I honestly think about this a lot. I’m not sure how productive it is. It is a part of my grieving process though, my lifetime grieving process. I think about the people I have in my life now in my blended family. I think about where I live, what I do, my children. None of that would be the same if my Father hadn’t died 13 years ago. And where it usually gets me is to a place of gratitude and understanding that his loss meant a new world for me to exist in.

Clearly, I’m not happy or grateful that I lost my Father. A man that was full of life and knowledge and adventure. A man that loved deeply and prioritized learning, family and enjoying life. A man that cared deeply about underserved communities and worked to give them opportunity. A man that carried childhood wounds that he worked on healing actively in his adult hood. A man that people were drawn to and wanted to be around.

I am grateful for where I am in my life right now. I’m grateful for events that got me here. I’m grateful that I had my father’s influence for 25 years. I’m grateful that I get to be one half of how his legacy is carried forward. And we are doing a fine ass job.

What continues to be the hardest part of all of this is how he’s missing his grandchildren. And when I think about that- that grief that has gotten so much smaller, slams right up against the side of the box. (https://themighty.com/2018/12/ball-box-analogy-grief/ )

These kids are such products of the life he lived. They’re his ongoing legacy. They’re better and stronger and wiser than any of us because he made me better and stronger and wiser than him.

And it fucking sucks that he doesn’t get to see Ava twirling in her pouffy pink princess costume in front of blooming forsythia.

That he doesn’t get to see Emilio hit a line drive out of the infield in Little League or nail a three point shot on a high school court.

That he’ll miss Ava’s gymnastic show, or one of her epic tall tales.

That he can’t sneak candy to them, or share ice cream, or take them kayaking.

A few weekends ago we celebrated my Cousin’s baby shower. Matt using his favorite number guessed the winning amount of “candy in a jar” which was one of the games. So we came home with a jar full of chocolate eggs, laffy taffy and sweet tarts.

Later that day I was standing in the living room and watched a heron fly low over our yard and land in a little brook across the street.

I ran outside and called the kids to come see. “That’s Grandpa Eric!’ I exclaimed.

I sent a fuzzy, you have to zoom in and really have keen eyes to see, picture to my Mom and Brother.

“He came looking for the candy!” my mom replied.

I’ve seen that heron a few more times since then. And every time I think of my Dad. Of being his legacy, of raising the next generation. Of what it means for me to carry forward with this life I’m now leading. This life I’m 13 years in to. One which doesn’t include his living body, and does includes his essence, his children, what he taught us. And herons all around.