It's so simple, and so powerful it its simplicity.
Today marks nine years since I picked up the phone in my office knowing from the number that my dad was gone.
Now I can't remember the last time I spoke with him.
Birthdays and death days are the hardest.
Holidays are hard, too.
I don't know why I used to think it was just me.
This particular grief is so familiar, no longer frightening.
Even so, grief can catch you unawares, like your reflection in a store window, when you were really trying to get a glimpse of the cute shoes inside.
Grief can be tedious for those who aren't living through it.
Grief can be bewildering for those on the outside.
Grief can be bewildering on the inside.
Grief can settle in and open another bottle of wine just at the point in the evening where you think everyone is leaving and you're ready to go to bed. .
On Saturday I was walking with my kids and India said, "I wish your dad were still alive."
I said, "Me, too."
She said, "It's very sad, and we don't have to talk about it."
I said, "It's OK to talk about things that make us sad. My dad would've loved you so much."
And she replied, "Grandma Lillian and your dad are watching out for us."
I said, "I believe that. I like this idea."
On Sunday, I took my mom to the house of a trasured family friend from our Delhi days.
Bibi and I saw each other and started to cry.
She said she missed my dad. She misses his sense of humor. They would push each other to wicked funniness and scandalize others.
In her memories of me as a teenager, I would come in and graciously say hello and then leave. I always had places to be.
I can remember my dad's laugh, but not his voice.
Why didn't I save any voice mails? Now I always save voice mails.
It's not a safeguard, but it makes me feel better.
India asked when my dad died, and I said a few months before Jordan was born.
She said, "I wish he was alive longer so he got to meet us."
Me, too, baby. Me, too.