10 years without Craig

A short reflection.

It’s been 10 years since we lost my dad. Yesterday I went for a walk in the snow and was surprised to find myself crying, as lately I’ve been so distracted by physical pain that I haven’t really had time to tune into the long ache of grief. But everything about the snow—from its smell to the slush on the roads—makes me think of him, like he’s come to visit. Not because it’s what took him from us but because it’s what he loved most.

I often wonder what he would think about the state of everything these days, not just our upside-down world, but also the varying paths that my siblings and I have ended up on. I know he would be proud of me in so many ways, but also heartbroken and frustrated by what’s happened to my body. I lament that he never got to meet Brady, who he would’ve loved—how happy he’d be that I’ve ended up with someone who balances me out so well, who makes my life lighter, and who is always up for a grueling bike ride.

When I was younger people often said that I was just like my dad and it was harder to see back then, when on paper we were so different. But that comparison rings truer these days. I see it in my intense determination to heal and find true solutions for my pain, refusing to just numb myself out with pills or stop trying even when every sign seems to be saying give up. It’s the same way he never took no for an answer and wouldn’t settle for less than the resolution he was looking for (for better and occasionally for worse). I see it in the high expectations I set for myself and others, the same ones he put on himself and everyone around him, including us kids. Back then those expectations didn’t always feel warm and fuzzy, but I see now that they came from a place of love—of wanting us to want the best for ourselves, and worrying what our lives might be like if we didn’t. I hear myself at times pushing the people I love to do the same—to respect themselves enough to want more out of life—and realize I’m carrying a torch that once drove me crazy, however well-intentioned it is.

And I see it in my perpetual state of searching, always a little dissatisfied with the status quo. I’ll never know what my Dad was looking for that he didn’t already have, but I suspect now that he never really would have found it. Because finding it wasn’t really in his DNA—he was someone who was always trying to squeeze the most out of life and, once he did, believing that he could squeeze just a little bit more.

I think he’d be happy to know that all of his children have adopted that attitude in our own ways—endlessly curious, passionate, stubborn, and looking for more to squeeze. He was the life force of our family when we lost him, but there’s so much of him in all of us that when we’re together it feels, for a bit, like he’s still here.