The Firsts

The Firsts

When my Dad passed away in October, I wasn’t immediately thinking,

“He won’t be here for Thanksgiving.”

“He won’t be here for Christmas.”

“He won’t be here for birthdays.”

That realization came much later.

It was about three weeks before Thanksgiving when someone casually asked me what I was doing for the holidays.

I paused.

And in that moment, it finally settled in.

My “normal” Thanksgiving wasn’t going to be normal anymore.

For many of us, the holidays are when we gather with family, linger a little longer over conversations, and spend time searching for that special gift that will bring a smile to someone we love.

Then come the firsts.

The first Thanksgiving.

The first Christmas.

The first birthday.

The first Father’s Day.

The first time you instinctively reach for the phone before remembering there isn’t a number to call anymore.

The firsts are the hardest.

Those are the ones I feel most deeply.

An empty place at the table.

No birthday card to mail.

No familiar voice on the other end of the phone.

No call to make that had become part of the rhythm of life.

My Dad and I both celebrate birthdays in July.

Mine is on the 12th.

His was on the 25th.

This year was my first birthday without him.

It was never about the presents.

It was about hearing him sing “Happy Birthday.”

He wasn’t exactly a polished singer.

I’d laugh every year and tell him he’d missed his calling—that he should have been the bass singer for Sha Na Na.

He’d laugh.

I’d laugh.

And somehow, that simple tradition made my birthday complete.

This year, there was no song.

Instead, I opened the journal I had made from the things that reminded me of him.

I wrote that I missed hearing his voice.

I wrote that I simply missed…

him.

The firsts remind us of what has changed.

But they also remind us of what hasn’t.

I still carry him with me.

I still hear his voice.

I still find myself talking to him.

I still smile when I see the photograph of him as a young man in his bomber jacket on my watch.

I know he is in a better place.

Free from pain.

I like to imagine he’s with my Mom, catching up with family and friends, smiling that familiar smile.

And while I wish I could hear him sing to me one more time, I also know something else.

The firsts eventually become the seconds.

Then the thirds.

The ache never completely disappears, but love quietly learns how to walk beside it.

My Dad isn’t only with me on the firsts.

He’s with me on the ordinary Tuesdays.

On long business trips.

In quiet moments at my workbench while I burnish handmade paper.

In the values he taught me.

In the stories I tell.

And sometimes…

if I listen closely…

I can still hear him saying,

“I’ll be loving you.”