The melody of his voice carried down the stairwell and into the kitchen, the opposite of the direction of the wafting coffee aroma about which he was excitedly speaking. “I can smell breakfast all the way up here!” he announced with the excitement of a little boy who had just glimpsed a steam locomotive. The coffee steam swirled from here to there, and his voice met it and danced down to me.

The cadence of his feet on the stairs told me he already had energy to outlast my sleepless new mom energy, and it gave me hope I would have spring in my step beyond this season. The unexpected proximity of a parent living part of the time with us in my adult life allowed for so many unique sharing experiences. Making breakfast together with or for my dad was a pure delight because no one – no one – was more appreciative of or excited about the soft fluffiness of scrambled eggs, the towering height of buttermilk biscuits, the sunset sky hues of ruby red grapefruit segments shining from a turquoise Fiestaware bowl.

It was from my daddy I learned how to deftly mix pancake batter for lofty stacks, how to cook eggs with care so they were soft and not rubbery, how to make breakfast extra special with a tiny vase of freshly flowers from the yard. He did these things for my mom, and he did them for me, for us.

I can still see him climbing out of his red car, clutching a handful of azaleas for me he cut from the bushes he and my mama planted – cotton candy pink, fearless fuschia, signs of Texas spring bursting forth. The care he took to not only buy a new toddler puzzle but to also wrap it in cheerful paper with a bow, knowing half the fun for the kids is the anticipation of what lies beneath while excitedly unwrapping the package.

His patience. His forethought. His joy. His genuine concern for the current state of others’ emotions, aspirations, and comfort.

His spirit takes up so much space still, his words hanging in the emptiness where he sat or stood or danced with a grandbaby in his capable and willing arms.

It doesn’t feel that far from here to there. Earth and heaven. His earthly self and his eternal and evergreen gifts. But I miss the “here” more than anything. We need you. We’re better for you. We’re changed because of you, and fiercely stepping into how we honor you in milestones and the everyday. Hoping you can see us from there.