Dear Dad,

First, a note on Writing letters to dead people, which is something I’ve never even remotely considered. Silent conversations with you? All the time. But laying out actual words on the page to a person no longer with us, seems so, I don’t know, melodramatic, if you will. Not in my wheelhouse.

And yet, I’ve been writing this one in my head for the past few months, and as often happens after I’ve been writing something in my head over a period of time, it began to feel compulsory to put it on the page. And because I am shamelessly public in my writing, and because I figured so many people who loved you have written letters in their heads to you, I thought I’d not only put it on the page, but out in the world.

So. A few things.

You died in 2017, thus missing (if, that is, people who have died do miss things, or, experience them alongside us, undetectable - a spirit situation, if you will, or guardian angel - which is another conversation entirely) well, some real interesting stuff. I could delve into the injustice, the tragedy…into the political division and the hope inherent this January. I could write an earnest letter to you about this inconceivable period, when, every now and then on a dog walk at night, I’ll stop in the middle of some street in our quiet neighborhood, breathe deeply and contentedly, then suddenly think: wait WHAT as I remember that everything is far from normal, and how far from normal. I guess my mind wants an occasional break from that reality, and under dark skies, among the glowing lights from living room windows, I forget.

I could tell you about all that. But, I swear, the thing I cannot stop thinking about is how I cannot imagine, for the life of me, you wearing a mask properly. Like, covering your nose and mouth consistently as you tried to chit-chat with people in the grocery store, which is, to my dismay and would very much have been to yours, not really happening anymore.

You would have been very bad at mask-wearing, Dad. Not because you didn’t believe in science, or have a desire to protect your fellow man - you wanted to protect other people more than just about anyone I’ve ever known - but because you were never one for details when it came to the nitty gritty of the big, lifesaving ideas. Recycling. Bicycle helmets. You were more of an ideas man and didn’t understand why the rest of us were fretting with the pesky specifics.. Also, your style choices were unique and charming, but you weren’t a rule-follower, let’s say. You’d throw a bright orange vest you got at LL Bean on top of an otherwise pretty normal outfit and you weren’t a hunter, Dad, oh my god, far from it (unless we can call your passion for seeking out first-editions of favorite books a form of “hunting,” which, by the way, doesn’t require an orange vest).

Your shirt hanging out one side of your pants, tucked in the other. Your mask askew, or forgotten in the console of the car. This would have been your reality and Mom’s cross to bear.

That’s one of the things I’ve been thinking about as we’ve trudged through these unforgettable months. Unforgettable - I know - is a trite and overused word, and let me tell you something. It’s been a hell of a time for trite and overused. The new normal. These uncertain times. Unthinkable. One-of-a-kind. Historic. But the thing is that this situation is, well, all of those words and phrases, and then some.

And it is not over. At the beginning, the novelty was a salve and a motivator, and we all thought, “Yeah! Who are we to complain about sitting inside and watching tons of tv!” This, while trying to digest the magnitude of the situation; the worst-case-scenarios that I, and many others have been, so far, fortunate enough to avoid. A weird little one-two punch, the levity and the horror.

But “the new normal” isn’t so new anymore. J and I can’t find anything to watch on tv, Dad. It doesn’t feel as indulgent to let the kids stay in their PJs on the days when we don’t really have to go anywhere, which is…a lot of the days. Gabe is particularly resistant to the getting on of something other than the soft clothes he was wearing the day prior, fighting against even the suggestion that he, say, change from loungewear into different loungewear (and yet, during an online conference, his teacher told us he is a wonderful role model, complimented his great manners, and J and I, in a seemingly unspoken agreement, decided not to offer our usual, “Oh man, you should see how he is at home!”)

The pandemic, however, is trending in a good direction, people are getting vaccinated and there are many reasons to be optimistic, but not like glass-half-full, sun’s out optimistic. More like a hushed, fingers-crossed, “Please.”

And, despite this confusing, endlessness - despite this in-the-moment history lesson - life very much goes on.

In January I got a new job. It’s in PR, so I’ve flipped my duties, so to speak, pitching and promoting the stories rather than writing them. I worried endlessly before accepting it about the obvious things, like taking on a full-time position during a pandemic, when the kids’ school schedule isn’t normal,

And I worried a lot about giving up the mantle of “writer.”

But the truth was (and forgive, once again, a trite and simple phrase, but I think we should forgive ourselves their inevitable use during, ahem, these uncertain times) I was ready for a new challenge. I have adored writing feature stories and getting to know the dazzling personalities I’ve profiled. I’ve nurtured every “wouldn’t it be great to write about how…” until it became a full blown essay. I am at home in my style and adept in fleshing out a piece after a painful few hours wondering where to start.

So, you could say that the writing life was very good. Yet, there was also an awful lot of staring at en empty page, Dad, in an empty house. There was a lot of output and it had started to feel a little static. This is nothing against the writing life, especially because I don’t ever plan to give it up.

But now my job involves people! And problem solving! Collaboration and fast-paced communications! All these fulfilling aspects of a professional life that I’ve really missed, and that you and I used to talk about a lot.

Also, most importantly, there was this one night I was talking to J about this potential career change, and how it felt crucial to get right. He diffused all the angst I was having in one fell swoop by reminding me that people aren’t just one thing. People aren’t just one thing, he said, and my head started to clear, as I said, “Oh yeah, oh yeah right.” Then he said, “Think about your Dad. No one would have ever said he was one thing. He worked at a job he loved and he was a writer, and was into politics.” You were a father and a grandfather and loved talking to strangers, and had years-long friendships that I admired while growing up.

I started crying (spur-of-the-moment crying is so totally 2020-2021 by the way) and said, “Yes! He wasn’t just one thing.” Sometimes we need to be reminded of simple truths by the people we love. Those who are with us and those departed.

You are around in those moments, Dad, and I’m not talking about the previously mentioned spirit business - I’m saying that your life’s actions inform mine, and that guidance feels like wisdom and laughter and relief.

Also, you are still here because I have some of your socks.

Back during the holidays, Nora had a small concert with the chorus she’s part of. It was distanced and masked in a lawn outside a church, and it was lovely and emotional because we all needed something like that so very badly, I think.

She’d been sledding with friends before we went and her socks were wet so I gave her mine. But mine were yours - patterned, colorful things that I must have stolen from one of your drawers after you died. I gave them to her, and told her that you would have said we didn’t need to go to the concert at all, declaring it one too many events in the always-overbooked holiday season. Plus it was snowing! You were always one for “skipping it,” even though you were an effortlessly social person, and I think you would have tried to pull that line this year even though everyone’s calendar - holiday and otherwise - has been notably blank.

I told Nora this because her feet were cold and she was resistant to going, which was a fair complaint from my normally game and easygoing child. We’ve had so much less to do and it has somehow been so much more exhausting. Reminding her that you would have tried to get out of it bolstered us to go. I watched her and the other girls sing in a circle, their voices like a remedy. We took the long way home, pointing out beautifully decorated houses along the shoreline.

That evening, the kids were sitting at the bar in the kitchen where we often eat our dinner, me and J switching between stools and standing. Nora put her feet up, showed us the bright knit patterns of Nonno’s socks. A warm and steady chaos, and there you were.

One, of many, moments. I’m thinking right now about how much I could write to you, and about how this writing isn’t that different than any of the other writing I do, which is a comforting thought: the unity of so many different threads. Not to get too abstract and literary, but it’s kind of reminding me of Emerson and the transcendentalists’ “oversoul,” actually, which is another thing you and I used to talk about all the time.

I did want to mention one more thing in this particular missive, though, and that’s Aidy, who, of all three children, reminds me of you the most, with her scrunch-faced smiles, her self-possession and individuality. She doesn’t have the kind of stress that comes from caring what other people think of you - you also possessed this quality, and I’m working on it, getting closer and closer with each passing year.

I’ll sometimes find her on the couch, relaxing in a pool of four or five granola bar wrappers, and be like, “Hey, did you eat all these?” She’ll say, “Yup,” no room in this wild, impassioned mind for the thought that maybe you shouldn’t do exactly what you want in any given moment.

She’s spiritual and empathetic and very much into the guardian angel theory I alluded to earlier, once drawing a picture of you with wings. She talks about death a fair amount for a six-year-old, in the way you imagine everybody should but nobody really does. A few months ago she brought me a pen, looked me straight in the eyes and said, “this is to remind you of your dead dad because you were a writer and he was a writer.” I swear to you, she’s something else.

Anyway, there was this afternoon a few weeks ago when Aidy was staring out our front window at the street outside, where neighbors have been casing the sidewalk - well - always, but at an increased level since March of 2020. Walking and running and chasing children. The human spirit on display.

Aidy stood there, watching the world go by, and she said, quietly, “This is my life. It’s all happening.”

To herself, but Gabe overheard, who told Nora, who told me. We laughed because it was such a big thought from such a small person, and because it was so very her. It was also so very you.

There you were again, in this nascent philosopher. It’s so exactly what you’d say, Dad, about the complexity of it all. I can just hear you shouting something like that when waking up from one of your afternoon naps.

Simple words for the feeling I, too, often catch among the glorious chaos.

This is my life. It’s all happening. And although I’ll leave specifics about the afterlife to the six-year-old, who is very much up for that discussion, it’s your life, too.

xoxoxo

your darling daughter