When someone you love dies, you don’t say goodbye just once; it’s a process that goes on and on for years. I told my father goodbye at his funeral, but I didn’t realize that it was the beginning of many more.
I said goodbye to my father when I was sitting alone on our dock at Saratoga Lake, watching the sun go down over the water. He loved sunsets, but he wasn’t there with me.
I said goodbye to my father when I played “You are my Sunshine” on the piano. No matter what he was doing, he’d stop and come up behind me and sing.
I said goodbye to my father whenever I saw a Reader’s Digest—that was the magazine he read to unwind after a long day.
I said goodbye to my father when I went for a walk in the woods behind the house. He loved taking the dogs back there for a run before it got dark.
I said goodbye to my father every time I took my children for ice cream. When we used to visit my parents at the lake, he would pile the kids in the car—no seat belts back then—and take them to Stewart’s for double dips.
I said goodbye to my father whenever I went water skiing. He drove the boat, and even though we always had another person with us who watched me ski, he would turn around at least ten times to make sure I was all right.
I said goodbye to my father every year around the holidays. Christmas was his favorite time of the year. He’d light a big fire, bring in a tall evergreen tree, cut fresh pine boughs, put Christmas records on our victrola, and sing carols at the top of his lungs while we decorated the house.
One day something beautiful happened—the goodbyes turned into hellos.
These days, I say hello to my father when I go back to visit my relatives in Saratoga. I drive around the lake past my old house and look out over the water. And guess what—he’s with me admiring the view.
I say hello to my father when I play his favorite songs on the piano. I can feel him standing behind me, singing along just like he did when I was a kid.
I say hello to my father when I’m in a store, and there’s a stack of Reader’s Digests prominently displayed on the magazine rack. I picture him picking one up and thumbing through it even though he knows he’s going to buy it.
I say hello to my father when my husband and I go for walks in places I know he would have liked. We don’t have a dog, but the ghosts of our old dogs are with us.
I say hello to my father when we have ice cream—especially pistachio, his favorite.
I say hello to my father when I remember what it felt like to water ski. He’s the boat driver, and he turns around at least ten times to make sure I’m okay.
I say hello to my father every Christmas when I hear my first Christmas carol, smell fresh pine, light the fire, and decorate the Christmas tree. It’s our favorite time of year.
I say hello in so many places because no matter how many times I said goodbye, my father never left. He was always there, loving me, and patiently waiting.
I love you, Dad.