I've written about and to many people on this blog, and they are all important parts of my story and our journey and Lily's family. However, I fear one may be more absent than I ever intended, and so comes this note.
Dear Dad,
Late each July, I don't know how to say goodbye. Each year becomes a bit harder than the last, and perhaps that's because I see the breathtaking and belly-laugh-inducing and joyful-beyond-all-belief moments expanding with each year of our daughter's life.
Before we go forward, perhaps it's helpful to go back. This summer marked Lily's sixth on "The Hill" (where my parents live in Connecticut). Here's a brief retrospective:
July 2014 - 6 months old, on my saddle
July 2015 - 1.5 years old, on my horse, Rocky
July 2016 - 2.5 years old, on her very own pony, Mallie
July 2017 - 3.5 years old, on Mallie
July 2018 - 4.5 years old, on Mallie
July 2019 - 5.5 years old, on Mallie
Dad, I don't have words to explain how it feels to watch you care for my daughter in the exact ways I know you cared for me. Yes, perhaps our tradition was hopscotching our way into NCCS's lower school classrooms each morning, my hand firmly ensconced in yours, and perhaps Lily's is hopping into her pink Jeep, riding down to the barn with you in tow for a morning of feeding and watering and mucking and riding.
But the outcome is the same: it's a girl, confident that she is loved, confident that she can conquer the world, confident that--on the days when maybe the world conquers her--there's someone in her corner, telling her to get on her feet, put on her boots, and face the next day that's to come.
Dad, Lily loves you so much. I know this in the way that I now know only a parent can: in the cadence of her giggle, in the confidence in how she mounts Mallie, in the exasperated tone when I ask if I might be allowed to accompany the two of you to the barn. She loves animals because you love animals--because I love animals in the way that you taught me to. She loves Red Steagall and Willy Nelson (and requests them on her Amazon playlists) because you love them--in the same way that I can't hear "On the Road Again" without smiling at memories of our Starcraft van, circa 1983.
And, Dad, I am so thankful for how much you love this little girl. How you indulge her requests for stories of our childhood barn cats, how you allow her an extra bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, how you always put rainbow sprinkles on top of her ice cream cone at Fudgies. Watching you love Lily is a rare gift, for it is my opportunity to remember that the ways you loved me are not merely reconstructions of my memories but actual reality.
Recently, I asked Jeff if he thought your memory might be fading. He was perplexed by my query and asked why I'd posed it. I explained that, quite a bit recently, I'd heard you call Lily by my name. Exasperated, he replied, "it's because you're her--and she's you!"
How blessed we are to be so loved by the same (Ganny)daddy.
All my heart,
Tory
