2 years.

Tomorrow marks two years since my dad rode his last bike ride. I can't really tell whether it feels like it happened just yesterday or forever ago. I suppose it feels like both. The time that passes between the days that I cry over him tends to get longer and longer, but the grief is always there. I feel it when I'm hiking and want to send him a picture of nature's beauty, when I watch my girlfriends dance with their fathers at their weddings, when I think about how excited he would have been to become a grandfather someday. During these last few weeks, I've been helplessly revisiting the memory of when I found out about his death. It is such a clear memory and obviously not enjoyable to harbor. As a result, I've been trying to make a purposeful effort to distract myself from that particular memory and to instead, try to dredge up good memories that I had long forgotten. A few have popped their way back to me. 

Once, in high school, I badly procrastinated on a history report that I had been struggling with. Dad was strict about getting good grades and making responsible decisions and I dreaded the judgment I would receive when I tearfully confessed that I had really messed up. Instead, he gave me a little monologue about how he pulled a few all nighters in his hey-day and that while it would suck that night and the next morning, I would survive it. Then he cooked me dinner and brought it to the desk while I worked away into the wee hours of the night while he read magazines nearby so I wouldn't be alone. 

One day, also in high school, Dad took Taylor and I for a hike out near Samuel P. Taylor State Park. On the way back, we passed a hitchhiker who was homely looking and had red boils all over his face. I distinctly remember glancing over at my dad who was watching the hitchhiker disappear behind us in the rear-view-mirror. Dad was making faces of sympathetic hesitation and before I knew it, he pulled an illegal U-Turn on the one-lane road and went back for the guy who we shoved in the backseat of the tiny car next to Taylor. The guy was very friendly and very grateful. While it might not have felt like a big deal to Dad, little did he know that he was making an impression on his daughter and leaving a lasting indication of how we should treat other people. 

The last birthday present Dad ever gave me is hanging on our wall. In July 2011, our beloved family dog, Cody, had to be put down and I was crushed. I was very close with Cody and it had been hard enough not living at home with him anymore. A year after Cody passed, Dad commissioned one of his employees who dabbled in art to make an oil sketch piece of Cody.

This last memory is not a sweet one but rather, a funny one that perfectly reveals my dad's uncanny nature. He was visiting Burlington, VT, just a day before my college graduation, when he asked to borrow my bike which was at Nick's house. I dropped him off and left to run errands. Later, Nick amusingly shared the story of how he and his roommates were sitting around their living room watching TV when my dad walked in and stripped down to his tightie-whities to change into some biking clothes. He had never met any of Nick's roommates before then. I'm sure he left quite an impression on them. 

 

And then there was the memory associated with the picture below. No big story here, just a reflection of July 4, 2009: a beautifully sunny day in San Rafael where I attended the Marin County Fair with Dad and Sam. We visited the petting zoo, ate delicious corn on the cob, and cracked up as Sam hid inside his own sweater when the fireworks began. It's the small moments and the simple days that become the most comforting to remember. 

 

When someone leaves us, all that is left is the memories. I'm trying to remember all the best ones I can as time inevitably fades many of these memories unless I make the effort to preserve them. At Nick's and my wedding brunch, I sat around with my uncle and a few of my dad's best friends and we shared some hilarious "Doc" stories. It was obvious that simply sharing funny stories about Dad made us all feel an internal warmth. 

I'd love to hear more memories/stories from family and Dad's friends if any come to mind.

Miss you, Pop. Remembering you today.