Here it is again. June 28th. This year would be thirty-eight years since the day we met. I’ll celebrate again like I have every year since you took your place in the stars five years ago.

I’ll pick up a tall, iced cappuccino to honor our anniversary tradition and I’ll head down to the riverside park where you first smiled and said hello and changed our lives.

The last four years, as I watched the condensation bead and roll down the side of the cup, I felt tears of sadness being separated from you.

This year feels different though. When I see the droplets coursing down the cup, I’ll know you are seated next to me remembering the life and good times we shared for thirty-three years, content to know we are moving forward together: me here and you at my side in spirit.

Happy Anniversary.

These hallmark days are so hard for those of us who no longer have a dad or husband. It just reminds us of what we are missing. No one to give a care to or a present. No barbecue to honor them.

However, I honor you Mike. The garden would always be planted with flowers and that is how I will spend my day. I will fill the garden with as many colors of flowers as I can. Even the neighbors will comment when I am done–not that I did a great job but that Mike would be happy to see all the colors.

Miss you, and will be talking to you all day long to see if you like what I did and if I should buy more …

Dear Pop,

I never realized that a job change would have such a tremendous impact on me. But alas, I stand corrected because a job change lead me to you, my Dad, my hero, my best friend, my Pop. Instead of being a Family Nurse Practitioner in one clinic everyday, I now travel to different clinics each shift. And with each clinic site comes exciting new challenges, opportunities to learn more, be better than even you were the day before and truly make a difference in people’s lives. Making a difference in others lives, seeing someone look up at you and genuinely smile, you know you’ve made a difference out there in the world, you can’t put a price on that feeling.

It’s on the roads to and from the clinics that I can listen to music and on one particular evening, I was on my way home from a clinic about an hour from home, about to get on the interstate, when I saw you standing there on the side of the road. Was it a ghost of you? Was I that exhausted from a 12 hour shift? It was an older gentleman, fixing the straps on the back of his truck as he was hauling a dishwasher. I could have sworn it was you; if anything, he was an Angel sent down to remind me that you are still everywhere surrounding me with love, just like you always did.

In that moment, in just an instant, that road lead me back to when I first lost you. I realized that my grief was so profound, so sad, that it inhibited me from being able to see just how similar we were, how we share these parallels in our lives that I can’t believe I never thought about before.

And the next uncanny thing I know, one of our favorite songs came on my playlist that night and chills ran down my spine because I had just seen a physical reminder of you and now this, our song “Lovely Day,” by Bill Wither came on. I still see 8-year-old me in the truck with you, on a Saturday morning, looking over to your face, the sunlight beaming down through the window amplifying your massive, grinchy grin, as you belted out the lyrics quite badly might I add. You’d sing “Then, I look at you, and the worlds alright with me, just one look at you.”

Since you were 16 years old, you were the hardest worker with the best attitude. You learned the laundry and appliance business from your father-in-law, then you started your own appliance business and commercial laundromats all over three states. You spent your entire life happily serving others in the community and traveling the same roads I do now.

I used to get so mad at you on holidays when you’d have to leave unexpectedly to go fix an oven. But you didn’t have to, you chose to–you did it because you cared. You’d always kneel down to my level and tell me “I’ll be back soon my Disney Princess, if I don’t help this family, they will be without a Thanksgiving meal because their oven is broken, but I can fix it and save their holiday.” And just like that, his soft voice, his smile, his sincerity to want to help others, my Dad stole my heart.

Now, I realize what a true hero he really was. Countless holidays my Dad made better, happier. How many meals he saved for people. All the many roads he traveled happily every day.

Pop, you helped me realize just how similar we are. As a Family Nurse Practitioner, you paved the roads for my happiness. I too have found happiness traveling those same roads and am dedicated to helping and serving my community just as you did. And as I do, I will always and forever happily, badly karaoke Bill Wither’s “Lovely Day” in your honor. Pop, you will always live in my heart. May I continue to carry on your legacy and help as many people as I can. May I make them all smile, just as big as you did. I will always love you, Pop.

We meet at a show where her brother was playing music and I’ve never been more grateful to have known anyone. She was hilarious and decided we were friends and I desperately needed friends at that time–there’s no way she knew what I was going through but she was so kind anyway. She helped me through a terrible heartbreak by reminding me of what real love and care is and I’ll be forever in her debt for it. My hope is to honor her by living fully and helping anyone I can along the way.

I’ll love you forever, Stephro.

He had a present for me. My dad was in his late 70s, and his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease started to make sense: familiar anecdotes grew longer even as they also lost details or merged with other anecdotes.

He had a present for me, and he had wrapped it in plain brown paper. My dad was one of those men who when he wanted to tell you something important or give you something, he stood up to do so. I do not know where this touch of formality came from, whether it was a trace of a whiff of a bygone era, something that the top-hatted men one saw depicted in the Victorian elocution primers with which my dad grew up in his childhood home do, or if it is merely a trait shared by men with the last name of “Aldrich.” My grandfather did it, my dad did it, and I tend to stand when I have to tell you something I have decided is important to tell you, too.

He retrieved the package from beside his chair and stood. “I think you should have this,” and he paused. It was an Alzheimer’s pause coupled with some father-son emotions; he couldn’t describe what the package was or how it was meaningful. “This is important.”

My parents and sister lived on Cape Cod. When I returned to New York, I opened the package: It was a large studio photo of my baby sister and me that was taken when she was still an infant; thus, at some time in the fall of 1971. It was newly framed and under glass, though. In the photo I am three, or about to be. I’d seen the photo many times, as it must have been sent around in a variety of sizes to all the cousins and grandparents back in the Christmas season of 1971. I actually had a copy on my Instagram account even when my dad made a gift out of it for me. I’d never seen it framed or so large.

He couldn’t wrap words around why it would be important to me; he just wrapped it in paper and made a gift of it. It sits in a nook on my wall, even today, and it holds a double meaning: it represents my childhood, as this photo always has done, but this particular copy is a personal gift from my father in his last decade, when what was important was only family. “I think you should have this.”

William Robert “Bob” Aldrich died of Covid-19 on May 10, 2020. He was 84.