February 19, 2019
Dear Dad,
It’s me again. I am working on writing my soul down. However long it takes me. Wherever it takes me. Maybe it will help lead me through this grief. Maybe it will lead me back to you. To the signs. To feel your spirit around me. Today was a better day as far as less tears. I made it to the gym, even if I only walked. I baked some bread. That always makes me feel closer to you.
Cooking and baking bread makes me remember your advice and all the years you spent in the kitchen. All those little tricks and comments you would make. I think of all the bread you would bake and tell me it had mayonnaise or beer or something that sounded crazy, but it was always the best bread!
I’ve started making yogurt now, so I keep the leftover whey. It’s really good in bread. Sometimes it just feels good to knead the bread. It’s like therapy after a long day.
I like to be creative. You were pretty creative yourself. Must be where I get it. I never know how to write down a recipe because I don’t really follow one. I’m so tired tonight. Working is going to be a little busier now so I’m trying to be better about preparing myself.
Isaiah was just here to shower and go out. Now I feel like you, getting nervous when he goes out. No wonder you were always nervous. I really feel bad about all those nights I worried about you. So now I have to pray. Pray that you and God watch over him. Keep him safe. Help guide him in the right decision.
Maybe us 3 Charlie’s angels are what strengthened your faith. Maybe that’s how you knew God was real, because of all the nights you sat up worrying about us. All you could do is pray.
I know that God can’t bring you back to us in the physical form, but he can keep you close to us. To guide us. To remind us of all we learned from you. To help us walk in the footsteps you left.
I can’t change the past and the nights you waited for me. But I am thankful for you. For being a good father. A great example of a loving, humble, gentle man. For helping me with Isaiah all those years. Being a strong influence not only to him but Bruce as well. Thank you for standing up for what is right.
Hands
That picture of you, holding her hand. Being there by her side. It takes me back to the time when I was there by his side.
In his final days. Cold hands. Cold, wrinkly old hands. Hands that held me as a baby. Hands that crafted simple blocks of two-by-fours into a beautifully polished Cedar Chest that now holds pictures of the past.
Memories of days gone by, when he held me on his lap. When He sat with me on the old tractor in the backyard. Next to the Garden, where his hands had nurtured and planted and grew ripe vines of tomatoes. Hands that picked freshly ripened radishes, washing them with the hose before biting into and crunching away at the sharp bitter flavor.
Hands that strummed away at the old Gibson strings as softly hummed away an old Johnny Cash song. And then those hands would take a break to crack open an ice-cold bottle of Budweiser, taking a nice long swig, refreshing and calming as it slid down his throat. Easing his mind from the thoughts and worries. Calming his nerves, which were always on edge, though it would never really show on his face nor in his demeanor.
Hands that reached into the pack of his camel non-filters as he pulled one out, lighting and inhaling the sweet tobacco that filled his lungs. That same tobacco that would slowly take his breath away over the years to come. That would cause his lungs to break down and eventually be overtaken by COPD.
Oh those hands.
Those hands that used to tuck me into bed at night. Those hands that would touch my forehead when I was sick, feeling for a sign of fever. Those hands that would bring me ginger ale and popsicles while I lay on the couch with strep throat.
Those hands that would cook me dinners of chunky meatloaf filled with big green peppers and onions. Hands that would mix and knead and form balls of dough into soft airy loaves of bread. The best bread you’ve ever tasted.
Hands that baked the sweetest tender pot of beans loaded with maple syrup and fat pieces of bacon. Hands that crafted scrambled eggs and crispy chewy bacon into Sunday morning breakfast and when he wasn’t up for cooking those hands would scoop up a big bowl of ice cream instead.
Hands on the steering wheel as he drove the grand kids to practice or a friend’s house. Hands that had hooked and jabbed moving swift and hard as he knocked out his opponent in the ring.
Hands that slowed over the years as old age set in. Hands that began to stiffen and tremble as Lewy bodies took over. Hands that slowly disconnected from his brain making it impossible to cooperate.
Hands that could no longer string or strum that old Gibson guitar. Hands that would no longer do what his mind wanted them to do. Frustrating hands, balled into fists which would no longer fight for him.
Becoming hands that would hold the nebulizer every night for his breathing treatments. Hands that would hold his Walker as he slowly made his way down the hall. Hands that could barely help him to steady and push him up from the couch.
And in those last few weeks it became my hands.
My hands would feed him bowls of ice cream and pudding. My hands would wipe his face clean, washing away any remnants of food left behind. My hands would smooth his hair back as I leaned down to kiss his forehead in that hospice bed and gently whisper “I love you, Dad.”
My hands would tuck him in, making him comfortable, covering him up nice and warm. My hands would hold his, hoping he could feel all the love and warmth I was sending to his unresponsive body. My hands folded in prayer for his peaceful journey home.
Now it’s my hands that hold the box which contains his ashes. My hands that hold the pen as I write him letters about how much he is loved and missed. My hands wipe tears from my eyes with his old, stained handkerchief when the sadness and emptiness of missing him is too much for my body to bear.
And now it’s my hands that craft flour, sugar, yeast and oil into soft doughy loaves of bread when I am missing him. And it is my hands that write these words, so that his hands and all they have done in my life and his, can be remembered forever.
Adventures of the Traveling Grief Case 
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