Today is Grandparents' Day.
And tonight, right now, at sundown, starts the highest of holy days on the Jewish calendar.
Two stark reminders of how life is so different without you.
It's been a while since I've written with moments and memories of you.
But it doesn't make a difference, because I think of you every day.
I see you in my own reflection.
*You look like Daddy,* I hear. My own voice. The words of others.
I bake sweet potatoes and want to pick up the phone.
You're not there. I know that.
What temperature? How long? Can I play it by ear and be successful? Like you always were.
Are. You always are. Why not are?
I made chicken broth and it's not like yours. I did a simple recipe to make it quickly.
It didn't work. I should have known better.
I wasn't trying to replace your recipe.
I'd never do that.
I tried to make it differently so I wouldn't flash back every time I sipped it.
That clear liquid. The broth that made everything better.
Even the smell of it, as it drifts up from the bowl. The spoon. It's exactly like yours.
So I tried a different one. Left a few things out.
It didn't work. It tastes gross.
I won't do that again.
I'd rather feel the pain of loss as I remember something we loved together than miss you more with something subpar.
The new year approaches and I feel hollow without you.
I should do more.
I should bake challah (I know, ridiculous, but maybe I'll try again someday) - (I can't eat it right now anyway). I should - I should - I should.
What should I do?
Is there anything I can do to bring you back?
You should be here.
Celebrating the start of yet another new year.
This holiday was yours, above anyone else's.
And it remains.
Only you're not here.
All of ours.
To hold onto.
I'll always remember.
I'll never forget.
I love you, Daddy.