- My dad never got to meet my daughters, who are now 10 and 3.
- I often think of all the things they won't get to do together and how good he would've been at them.
My dad died when I was 25, seven years before I became a parent. He would have been the coolest grandpa, but he never got to meet my two girls, now 10 and 3.
Sometimes when I'm in the throes of chaotic family life — giving the toddler a bubble bath, detangling someone's hair, chopping vegetables while the girls dance around me — I am overcome with grief. How could it be true that my dad never laid eyes on these luminous creatures?
My dad will never pick my girls up and swing them through the air, or cup their tiny, soft, squishy hands in his. He will never laugh with them in lakes or swimming pools; they will never go diving together or play Marco Polo. He will never hear the tinkling wind chimes of their voices. They will never have the thrill of riding on his shoulders — he was 6-foot-5.
He died of cancer
When my dad was dying of bone cancer in a hospital in Manhattan, we spent hours talking about my future. A reporter by trade, my dad was always interviewing me, relentlessly curious, even when he was very sick.
One night we sat together in the patient lounge, looking out a window at the East River glistening in the darkness. Traffic streamed in two directions, white lights shimmering like a string of diamonds. We sat silently for a while, and I felt so close to him.
"Where do you think you'll be living three years from now?" my dad suddenly asked, swiveling to face me. "Five years from now?"
I knew I was going to lose my father that year. But until he asked this question, a part of me couldn't fathom that he would always be lost and that this loss would continue on and on, growing and shape-shifting. My eyes filled with tears, and the car lights turned into a wash of light.
How could I live the rest of my life without my dad? I couldn't imagine it.
But somehow I've done it. I've built a life, a whole, teeming life, even if he hasn't witnessed it.
I find love wherever I can
The owner of our local deli, a charismatic older man, reminds me so much of my dad. The first time he saw my older daughter in her princess dress and feather boa, his face lit up. He rushed to the back of the store and returned with a big yellow balloon. When he handed her the gift, his smile was beatific.
Now he gives us a balloon every time we get bagels and seems truly dazzled by the sight of my children, the way a grandfather would be. I don't even know this man's name, but I feel his love.
In the children's book "Ladder to the Moon," written by Maya Soetoro-Ng and illustrated by Yuyi Morales, a granddaughter travels to heaven to see the grandmother she never got to meet on Earth. A ladder to the moon is the loving connection they share, one that surpasses death.
I find ladders to the moon wherever I can — through photos and stories and in our ever expanding love for New York City and New Yorkers. I don't know what else to do with my loss. My kids and I will find this fleeting love in smiles, gifts from strangers, and nights when we're cozy together, watching car lights glide through the dark like stars.
Jess deCourcy Hinds is a writer in Queens, New York. Her free quarterly newsletter is I'm an Open Book: On Love, Libraries and Life-Building.