Love

There are a lot of photos of six of us celebrating. The 7th person was always holding the camera.


My father loved a lot of things. Swimming, basketball....

He was a chemist. With two daughters allergic to science.

The Christmas tree had to have tinsel. And only he could put it on properly.

He certainly loved to eat. And Christmas wasn't Christmas without a cannoli.

He danced. At weddings and in our home. After a celebration, we'd roll up the rug and put on some rock 'n roll.

As a boy, his Uncle Billy taught him to fish at a point in Brooklyn, NYC. Over the years, fishing was relaxation. And if dinner was caught, so much the better.

He was beautiful.

When he was younger, his father left. Took the car, the savings and just left. My father, his sister Ruth and brother Richard braved the world together. It was the three of them against the world as my grandmother struggled to care and provide for her children.

Their love and affection for each other carried them through life.

This June would have been their 59th anniversary.

"You will carry him in your hearts always and find him in unexpected ways," wrote my close friend. "Those who love deeply, grieve deeply," wrote a wonderful blogger.

There are so many photos of my parents dancing... I know how wonderful that is. It's a gift,

The biggest hug in the world on my sister's wedding day.

The biggest smile in the world on mine.

Matthew wanted this photo. For his smile. His grandson.

Kirsten wanted this one. His granddaughter.

Not everyone knew his great capacity for silliness. But my sister did!

In the great northwoods for my parent's 50th. We didn't fish but we had an al fresco lunch on Lake Superior.

At 2:30 a.m. Palm Sunday, my sister woke up. She went downstairs to check on Dad. She felt the room fill up. She saw Grandma Daisy and Aunt Ruth. She held his hand. From my father's early days he was a caregiver. Way before Grandpa Rudy up and left them, he assumed care of my Uncle Richard. He continued to be a caregiver his entire life. My sister told him how much he was loved. And that everyone he loved would be fine and it was all right to leave. And while holding his hand, he died peacefully. At home. As was promised.

We celebrated everything. Every birthday, anniversary, graduation and the fact that it was Sunday and we were all free for dinner.

We gathered at their Woodbury home. To cry, to nosh, to grieve, to tell stories. Later as my daughter was home alone prepping for a job interview, our yellow lab howled. Our cat meowed. She could not quiet them. She listened. She looked outside. She could not see what set them off. And then she wondered if Grandpa was checking on his granddaughter one last time. Ever the caregiver, checking to see if she was all right. Flights of fancy? Does it matter?

`
My father was a private man. I will respect the privacy and never write of what is intensely personal to him. But I will always write of his love.

And he loved. And was loved.