Well, today wasn't as bad as I was anticipating. It was a day to think of you, and miss you, and celebrate the things about you that I loved. We had an impromptu dinner down at Billy's in Port Jeff. Mom wanted to go there because it was one of the only places around that she'd never been to with you, so it wouldn't bring up any sad memories. Sashi and Dinesh decided to come too, and of course they were hilarious. You really thought Dinesh was funny, and I see why -- you've got to listen really closely, but when you do you realize he is hilarious, which is also how you were. Quietly and almost unexpectedly funny. And then there is Sashi, who is just overtly over the top funny. She walked into the dingy back room of this local dive bar practically dripping with diamonds and said, not quietly at all, "I've never been here. Dinesh says this is where all the low-lifes come."
Driving past one of Heatherwood's golf clubs on 347 today, there was a giant flock of seagulls soaring through the sky. There were so many of them, white wings all glinting in the sunlight, circling around a bright blue winter sky. It was really quite pretty, and since they were not near the water and were inexplicably doing this above and around the golf course of the company you were in house counsel with for nearly half of your life, I figured they were probably putting on a show for your birthday.
You were such a good person. You really loved life, and people, and joy, and laughter. I miss you so much, Dad, but finally I'm not sad, even if only for a minute. I'm just happy, so happy that I was lucky enough to have you as a father. So happy that I got to know you.
In celebration of your life, here is a poem. Megan read this poem at the memorial service I forced you to all participate in for my cat Owen, and it's always stuck with me. It's inspiring and life-affirming and really a bit scary. It reminds you how precious and transient the time we have here is, it reminds you to celebrate it.
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
The one who has flung herself out of the grass,
The one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I've been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Driving past one of Heatherwood's golf clubs on 347 today, there was a giant flock of seagulls soaring through the sky. There were so many of them, white wings all glinting in the sunlight, circling around a bright blue winter sky. It was really quite pretty, and since they were not near the water and were inexplicably doing this above and around the golf course of the company you were in house counsel with for nearly half of your life, I figured they were probably putting on a show for your birthday.
You were such a good person. You really loved life, and people, and joy, and laughter. I miss you so much, Dad, but finally I'm not sad, even if only for a minute. I'm just happy, so happy that I was lucky enough to have you as a father. So happy that I got to know you.
In celebration of your life, here is a poem. Megan read this poem at the memorial service I forced you to all participate in for my cat Owen, and it's always stuck with me. It's inspiring and life-affirming and really a bit scary. It reminds you how precious and transient the time we have here is, it reminds you to celebrate it.
The Summer Day
Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
The one who has flung herself out of the grass,
The one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I've been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
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