As I was leaning over to grab my bag off the floor of my car the other day, something glimmered.
A quarter, shining up at me.
“Hi, dad,” I thought, my heart swelling with both grief and joy.
I will forever think of my dad when I find random change around. He always seemed to spot it, wherever we went… and now I’m certain he’s leaving it for me.
It’s not just found money that will bring me back to memories of the most kind and caring person in my life.
It’s slow sips of coffee overlooking a foggy Brantingham Lake as a loon peacefully swims by, leaving a long ripple of water behind it, reminding me of the way my dad moved through life leaving ripples of joy, peace, and presence with everyone in his midst.
It’s the taste of blackberries, taking me back to our adventures to his “secret spots” in the Adirondacks, where he’d take my sister and I and our little berry pails, his somehow filling up with handfuls in no time, while ours filled up slowly, berry by single berry.
It’s the strokes of my paintbrush, delving deep into the roots of my plein air painting, stemming from his unabashed love for nature, the land, and animals.
Two weeks out from my dad’s sudden passing, I can say that each of these memories brings more joy than grief, though accepting that he’s actually passed is not easy.
My dad was 88. He lived a good, long life.
We gathered on what could not have been a more perfect September day to celebrate his time here. Evidence of his good life was everywhere: In the sun, in the incredible people who came to pay their respects, and in the love that cocooned us all.
Soon after the service ended, the couple who bought my parents’ home a few years ago approached me.
In their hand was a keychain they’d just found, a Mickey Mouse-themed letter A, that had been hiding on a shelf in the barn that both my parents and my sister and I had thoroughly cleaned out.
Chills went through me. I held that keychain close to my heart, hearing my dad saying, “Just have fun, Cindy. Enjoy life.”
My dad grew up simply, surrounded by nature in the Adirondacks, without most of the comforts we know now: Electricity; indoor plumbing; central heat or air.
He didn’t need much to make an adventure, a blessing he passed on to my sister and I.
He was patient. He was grateful. He was kind. He was a joy to be around.
Most of all, he was present.
Dad lived in the moment.
He pulled his red truck over when we asked to get out to roll down a hill or go for a swim.
He’d sit in a treestand for hours, fancying himself a hunter, but really just there to observe the deer and birds in their natural state.
He smiled a smile of pure joy each and every time he opened a new pair of flannel-lined L.L. Bean pajamas.
He worked hard, yet always had a smile on his face. He never had a list, and yet somehow everything always got done.
When I think of my dad, I’ll remember an untethered soul. A person just happy to be.
Well, dad, I’m just happy I got to be with you.
Thank you for everything. I love you completely.