Five.

Five years since I held you through what will be one of the single most heart shattering moments of my life. Carrying you to the very gates of heaven alongside Alec and Brad.

Courage for this impossible morning which could only have come from being your daughter, knowing what pain and grief you carried in your own life, to endure such pain because I knew we both wanted you to stay. You were nowhere near finished with your life on earth. You expected and deserved more. We all needed you so much longer.

In the canyons of your absence, I am aware of the entirety of your essence. Your steadiness and excitement, your tuned in emotional ability to see how others’ hearts were arranged, and what hopes percolated inside of them. Your gaze missed nothing. You would pause and ask follow up questions when you felt someone needed more, needed to be seen, had something further inside for discussion or consideration. Dismissiveness was not a part of your genetic makeup.

One of the most enduring parts of your life is EFFORT. Effort. Care. Energy. Time. Whimsicality. Paying attention to the details which light up others’ hearts, and finding a way to include those things. Perhaps the seeds for this kind of care were planted when you were a “small boy” as you would say – moments your parents and your grandparents poured into you. You could remember making cookies, working on science kits, having long conversations with your family as the only child and light of their lives – picturing you this way as “Stevie” (you have a namesake Stevie now, Spencer and Marissa’s beautiful son) utterly warms and overflows my heart. And when I see gleams of you in Luka I wonder if I am being treated to a heavenly visit from you right then. The exquisite arc of a storyline: you as the grandfather you loved so much with Brayden, Makayla, Annabelle, Amelia, and Luka. You dove in with board games, books, puzzles, all kinds of wheeled toys, puppet shows, and numerous concerts with a plastic drum set and a dog shaped guitar.

Perhaps much of the detail noticing was finely honed by your painstaking work in patent law – where you shared that even the most minute shards of information signified the discerning part of the job. Or maybe more rooted in commercial prowess – you juggled understanding the overarching goals of large corporate projects and tasks meshed alongside the lower stakes but still significant challenges, routines, preferences which must first be untangled to proceed.

You were not afraid of mistakes. I can see you at the piano, playing deftly, occasionally a single key off, then a beat where you closed your eyes and silently resolved what the fix would be, and put fingers back to keys to move forward, missteps a part of the bigger story. You let us know in our schooling, our sports, our careers, our relationships, our choices, our pursuits as we grew: mistakes are natural, expected, and a sign of learning and adapting. I was not afraid to fail, because your candor was authentic and true and it arrived as support and encouragement. Some of our deepest conversations in the years between Mom’s death-Amelia’s birth-your death involved reviewing major relationships and decisions, and considering how we handled them, and if different paths would have been better or produced a different end result. This ability to see the wholeness of a situation and not wear blinders of confirmation bias has guided me forward every day of my life since.

When you did not know enough about something, you ensured you would learn more. You read voraciously and researched thoroughly – you knew data was key to decision making, and you didn’t shy away from taking the time to become informed before arriving at a conclusion. You were the living example of being able to change your mind on a topic with changing information and facts. You sent thoughtful articles and asked questions, and so many of our conversations around my kitchen table made me think as we wondered and learned together.

The higher standard to which you held yourself is what gave me a sense of safety in everything we shared. How you piloted. How you listened without judgement and helped formulate solutions. One could only hope to be so lucky as the ones who were given Steve Wright’s handwritten paragraphs of ideas and mentorship, suggested newsy bullet points of steps with variable choices and suggested timelines paired with bursts of encouragement scribbled as edits in the margins (“you’re a natural at this!” “the work will be worth it!”). Daddy, you’re the one who suggested career shifts, marriage counseling, real estate considerations, business propositions. I have saved every one of these, because each word you wrote was with a purpose: helping others.

Amelia and Luka saw the loving, silly, comforting, encouraging, steadiest elements of you. You cared for them so generously, and they sensed how dearly you loved them. It provided a bedrock which will serve them for the rest of their entire lives. I saw these things you gave to them (and to us as parents) and even more: I saw your resolve and intent and deep, abiding promise to yourself and to Mom within every interaction you had with your grandchildren.

When I think about the courage it took for us to hold you as you left this earth – a day and a moment I could never have fully accepted even knowing grief and the inevitable earthly end as deeply as I do – I am struck by the likelihood that it took courage for you, too, to let go aware of how badly we needed you and how shattered we would be without you here – and move to Mama’s side, letting go of the grip on an earthside existence where you were so loved, fulfilled, and still so possible.

For many months after your death, I only drove your car; we took that red Lexus everywhere. To Florida and back. To Mississippi to get Trixie and back. It was a comfort to be in the vehicle synonymous with you for the kids, for plenty of our adventures together. I wasn’t able to listen to anything else in the car except your Jan & Dean CD already in the CD player which you loved to play for the kids, and especially for Luka on his tough mornings before preschool. You’d institute a car dance session to surf songs and that always erased his grumpiness as you two bobbed and clapped and sang and grinned. I heard the lyrics to “Ride The Wild Surf” in those weeks after you died and they landed as I processed them and leveled me:

Lined up and waiting for that next big set outside /
Nothing can stop it ’cause you’ve just gotta ride, ride, ride, ride, ride /
The heavies at the pipeline are okay /
But they can’t match the savage surf at Waimea Bay /
It takes a lot of skill and courage unknown /
To catch the last wave and ride it in alone /
Ride ride ride the wild surf /
Ride ride ride the wild surf /
Ride ride ride the wild surf /
Gotta take that one last /
Gotta take that one last ride

The last wave you caught from life to afterlife you had to do completely alone, even with us cradling you earthside, the letting go and trusting in what was next was all yours to endure. You were so brave. You were courageous. You worked so hard to be able to trust yourself, and I am aware you infused that trust and potential in your family. Whatever I have to endure, I can take that ride.

I love and miss you without end, Daddy. I am forever changed and better for our love. Marc is. The kids are. Brad and Kristyna and their kids are. Alec is too. We are shattered but we are brimming over with resolve and the wish to preserve and celebrate and carry forward your legacy. Honoring you today and forever. CAVU, and hold Mama tightly for us.