Today marks 11 years that
Dave has been
gone from our sight.
We are into the second decade
without him.
For Kate, he's been gone for
more years than he was here.
Even for me,
it's past the halfway mark.
Dave was in my life for 20 years.
Now absent for 11.
But not really absent.
Not really gone.
Not really.
His ashes sit on our piano.
Wearing various hats
to go with the seasons.
That's the physical.
We also have the rock,
a symbol,
steady and strong at WaHi.
And pictures.
So many pictures.
That smile.
Glowing, even in two dimensions.
And his voice.
Like velvet.
Singing over the car speakers
on our road trips.
White Lies
And She Was
Heaven
Magic Penny
Melt with You
Every Time You Walk By
Growing Older with You
Those are the tangible things.
The things we can still touch.
It's not enough,
Never enough.
And at the same time,
some days,
it's too much.
There are still days
something will sneak up
and blindside me.
Dusting the piano,
touching the warm wood
of his urn,
tracing the cross.
And suddenly,
the tears,
the ache,
the missing,
the searing, burning pain...
flooding back.
Sharp as it was
eleven years ago.
Hot tears,
falling on silent keys.
Time does not heal.
Not really.
When I think about time,
what comes to mind is that
the more time passes
the more he has missed.
The more he's been missed.
We hold on to the physical.
And try to treasure the other,
less tangible,
ways that Dave is still here.
He's part of every moment,
every day.
We think of his love of people
when we're cranky.
We talk about his gratitude for Mondays
when we're tired.
We remember his unwavering faith
when we have doubts.
We imagine what he would say
at the silly, crazy, frustrating things that happen.
We draw inspiration from
what we know of his heart
in every decision we make.
We pause
to think of him
in those moments,
the big ones and the small ones,
when he should be here.
In this way, he is present
with us.
Always.
It's the best we can do.
It's all we have.
Dave has been
gone from our sight.
We are into the second decade
without him.
For Kate, he's been gone for
more years than he was here.
Even for me,
it's past the halfway mark.
Dave was in my life for 20 years.
Now absent for 11.
But not really absent.
Not really gone.
Not really.
His ashes sit on our piano.
Wearing various hats
to go with the seasons.
That's the physical.
We also have the rock,
a symbol,
steady and strong at WaHi.
And pictures.
So many pictures.
That smile.
Glowing, even in two dimensions.
And his voice.
Like velvet.
Singing over the car speakers
on our road trips.
White Lies
And She Was
Heaven
Magic Penny
Melt with You
Every Time You Walk By
Growing Older with You
Those are the tangible things.
The things we can still touch.
It's not enough,
Never enough.
And at the same time,
some days,
it's too much.
There are still days
something will sneak up
and blindside me.
Dusting the piano,
touching the warm wood
of his urn,
tracing the cross.
And suddenly,
the tears,
the ache,
the missing,
the searing, burning pain...
flooding back.
Sharp as it was
eleven years ago.
Hot tears,
falling on silent keys.
Time does not heal.
Not really.
When I think about time,
what comes to mind is that
the more time passes
the more he has missed.
The more he's been missed.
We hold on to the physical.
And try to treasure the other,
less tangible,
ways that Dave is still here.
He's part of every moment,
every day.
We think of his love of people
when we're cranky.
We talk about his gratitude for Mondays
when we're tired.
We remember his unwavering faith
when we have doubts.
We imagine what he would say
at the silly, crazy, frustrating things that happen.
We draw inspiration from
what we know of his heart
in every decision we make.
We pause
to think of him
in those moments,
the big ones and the small ones,
when he should be here.
In this way, he is present
with us.
Always.
It's the best we can do.
It's all we have.
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