I have a clock from my father’s room. I keep it on my kitchen counter. As my 14 year old eats breakfast, the sound of his spoon hitting the cereal bowl and the football game he is watching on his I-Pad leaves me questioning if the clock is still working. Because it doesn’t have a second hand, I don’t know right away. I do see that the time is off by an hour, but that is the case because I never reset it when I took it from my father’s room. So, I put it up to my ear and listen. I am comforted by the gentle and perfectly spaced out ticks it exudes.

All at once, I am struck with the symbolism of this. As my day-to-day life fills more space in my head and heart, I have to pay attention more closely, listen more carefully to remember my father. I still miss him so very much. It’s been less than a year. And, the circus known as probate certainly isn’t helping the process. But, even when life has been paused and thrown into grief and chaos , life has a way of creeping back into place. It reminds me of the green vines we have around our light post and mailbox. No matter how many times they are cut back, they grow back. Not all at once. But, over time. And, one day, you notice they have returned, fully, with a vengeance. Just like life after grief. That is how it has to be. I am sure my father would not want me to be paralyzed with grief, unable to care for my family, unable to participate in my career, unable to be in life. So, the strong insidious vines of life grow back in, all around the fixtures of my life. I will let them grow, even invite and encourage them. And, I will hold your memory close to my heart, Daddy. Every day.