It's been a year since my Daddy passed away.
A year of firsts. The first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, the first Father's Day, our birthdays, and all those Sunday conversations that were simply part of our lives.
When he passed in October, I wasn't immediately thinking about all the things that would be different. I wasn't thinking about the holidays, birthdays, or the little routines that had become such a familiar part of my life.
I was just trying to understand how he could be gone so quickly.
He wasn't supposed to leave us that soon.
I think the shock of losing someone can protect us from some of those realizations, at least for a little while. I'm not a doctor, and I certainly don't pretend to understand all the stages of grief. I just know what I experienced.
Disbelief was a big part of it.
Last year's holidays are mostly a fog. I don't remember much about Thanksgiving, and Christmas isn't much clearer.
But as the months passed, something interesting began happening.
I would find myself thinking about Daddy in the most ordinary moments.
When Father's Day advertisements started appearing everywhere in June, my first thought was, "What am I going to get Daddy this year?"
And then, almost immediately, reality would settle in.
Oh.
He's not here anymore.
The same thing happened around his birthday in July.
I would catch myself wondering what he wanted to do for his special day, or what I could get him.
My birthday is July 12th. Daddy's was July 25th.
For as long as I can remember, part of my birthday was looking forward to hearing him sing to me.
He had this wonderful deep voice, and I would laugh and tell him he'd missed his calling. He should have been the bass singer for Sha Na Na!
Oh, how I miss that.
And then there are Sundays.
The days we would talk about life, what was happening, what was new, and sometimes nothing particularly important at all.
There are still moments when I think about picking up the phone to call him.
I'm not confused about whether Daddy is gone. I know he is.
It's just that a lifetime of loving someone creates patterns that don't simply disappear when they do.
Those are what I call the firsts.
And sometimes they arrive when you least expect them.
A Little Stain Above the Pocket
On the anniversary of Daddy's passing, I spent some quiet time with the remembrance journal I made for him.
Every page was handcrafted with pieces of his life.
His clothing. His photographs. His military career. His hobbies. The things he loved and the things that made him who he was.
The inside covers are made from his favorite shirt.
And wouldn't you know it, the very first thing I saw when I opened his journal was a stain.
Right above the pocket.
I laughed out loud.
That man could not eat a meal without dripping something on his shirt! LOL.
And there it was.
A year after losing him, Daddy was still making me laugh.
I didn't see an imperfection.
I saw my Dad.
I could almost picture him sitting there, completely unaware that he'd managed to get something on his shirt again.
I touched the fabric, ran my fingers across the familiar material, and smiled.
That little stain brought back something no perfectly preserved photograph could have captured quite the same way.
It brought back the ordinary, wonderful, imperfect man I loved so much.
And for a moment, I wasn't thinking about the day he died.
I was remembering how he lived.
Every Page Holds a Piece of Him
As I continued turning the pages, I found myself slowing down.
There were photographs embedded within the handmade paper, reminders of his military service, pieces of his favorite clothing, and memories of the things that brought him joy.
Every page held something familiar.
Something that belonged to Daddy.
I could touch the paper, see pieces of his life, and remember the stories behind them.
And something happened that I wasn't expecting.
I felt peaceful.
Not because I stopped missing him.
I miss him terribly.
But because I could sit with those memories, take a deep breath, and feel close to him.
The journal wasn't simply something I had made to remember Daddy.
It had become a place where I could continue my relationship with him.
The Things I Still Want to Tell Him
I still talk to my Dad.
I tell him what's happening in my life. I think about what he might say when I'm facing a difficult decision. I remember his advice, his humor, and the sound of his voice.
And I write to him.
His journal gives me a place to tell him the things I never got to say while he was here.
Sometimes those words are about missing him.
Sometimes they're about something that happened during my day.
And sometimes I simply want to tell him that I love him.
There's a familiar saying that grief is love with nowhere to go.
I've thought about that a lot this past year.
I understand the sentiment. When someone we love dies, we still have all that love, but the person we shared it with is no longer physically here.
And that is painful.
But as I sat with Daddy's journal, I began thinking about that saying a little differently.
Maybe love doesn't have nowhere to go.
Maybe we just have to discover new ways to express it.
For me, some of that love goes into the pages of his journal.
Into the conversations I still have with him.
Into the stories I share.
And into the laughter that comes from finding a stain on his favorite shirt.
A Year Later
The holidays are approaching again.
This will be the second Thanksgiving and Christmas without Daddy.
I don't know exactly how they'll feel.
I do know that grief doesn't follow a calendar. There isn't a date when we're supposed to stop missing someone, and there isn't a milestone that suddenly makes everything easier.
Some days I feel the loss deeply.
Other days I find myself smiling at a memory, hearing his voice in my mind, or remembering something funny he said.
And sometimes I feel both at once.
I take comfort in believing that Daddy is at peace, no longer suffering, and reunited with Mom and so many others he loved.
I also take comfort in knowing how deeply he loved me.
One of the things he would say was:
"I'll be loving you."
I can still hear his voice saying those words.
And perhaps that's what I've come to understand after this first year.
I don't have to stop missing him to find peace.
I don't have to stop talking to him because he isn't physically here.
And I don't have to let go of the little things that made him my Dad.
The firsts will become seconds, and eventually there will be more birthdays, holidays, and Sundays without him.
But there will also be more memories.
More stories.
More conversations written into the pages of his journal.
And, knowing Daddy, probably a few more laughs.
The Love That Remains
When I first began making remembrance journals, I wanted to preserve the things that mattered most about someone we loved.
Their handwriting. Their clothing. Their photographs. The flowers they cherished. The little pieces of their lives that we simply couldn't bear to part with.
I wanted those memories to become something we could hold.
But a year after losing Daddy, I've discovered something I didn't fully understand when I made his journal.
I created it to preserve pieces of his life. What I didn't realize was how much those pages would help me continue mine.
They give me a place to remember him.
A place to laugh.
A place to cry.
A place to write the things I still want to say.
And most importantly, a place where I can continue feeling connected to the man I was so blessed to call my Dad.
The journal doesn't take away my grief.
It gives my love somewhere to go.
And every time I open those covers and see that little stain above his shirt pocket, I smile.
Because before I remember that Daddy is gone, I remember something much more important.
He was here.
And oh, how wonderfully he lived.
I'll be loving you too, Daddy.
Always. ❤️