Hello everyone. I’m still trying to wrap my head around all of the beautiful moments from yesterday. What a day. Like my dad, connection is everything to me and I was able to connect with so many of my nearest and dearest and so many of his. From the very bottom of my heart, I thank you all. 
I was planning to talk at the service but there were so many others speaking (the competition was fierce!) so I decided I would post mine instead. Truth be told, I may have been looking for an excuse since public speaking is not my forte. Anyway, here is what I had written…
When my dad was first diagnosed back in March, a dear friend of mine offered up some solid advice: Go back east. Go back often. Go all in. 
In the six months that my dad was sick, I managed to make it back 5 times. First for his surgery, then for Spring Break, then for Father’s Day, again for a very hot week in August, and finally for the last 6 days of his life. 
One of the beautiful things about knowing that someone is terminally ill (and maybe the only beautiful thing), is that you can make the most of every second. And I fully believe that I did. I paused and soaked up every hug we shared, I made note of how big and warm his hands were every time I reached out to hold them, I recorded videos in my mind of him laughing, singing, resting, even chewing. 
One day in April while sitting on the couch with my dad, HGTV on in the background, (our mutual guilty pleasure) I asked him what he thinks happens to us when we die. Where do we go? What happens next? What he thinks it physically feels like to die? You know, typical light afternoon conversation. 
We talked and talked about science and religion, energy and souls. Finally I asked him how he’d show up to let me know he was still “here” after he passed. He thought about that one for awhile before answering “You know, Nunnie” (my nickname since childhood that only he still called me) “I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about that one.”
My next trip back I asked him if he’d thought more about it. He said he had. I couldn’t wait to hear what clever ways he’d come up with. Because you know it would have been good. Instead he said, “Here’s the thing,, hun…since I don’t know what happens to us when we die, I can’t answer that question. I don’t know what I’ll be capable of ‘out there’. Or not capable of. I might not be able to show up later the way I say I will now. I think you’ll just know it when you know it. Does that make sense?”
That was not the answer I wanted but it was the one I needed. An honest one. 
“Yes, I think so. Like every time I find money or hear a mockingbird sing. Or flip the channels and see Peewee’s Big Adventure is on, or hear Genesis on the radio, that’ll be you.”
“Precisely” he replied while nodding and smiling. “I knew you’d get it”. I made sure my mental video was on and recording. 
In the 10 days since my dad has passed he’s shown up everywhere. And not just in the 2 pennies and a nickel found on the street. Or when No Son of Mine by Genesis came on the radio (or the dozens of other songs that remind me of him). But in so many new ways I never even thought about. Like at the library on Wednesday where the book The Little Prince was on display-that being the first chapter book my dad ever read to me. At the airport on Friday passing the Hudson Newsstand and seeing the latest issue of HGTV magazine, a subscription to which I received year after year from my dad and Vicki. On Monday night, when I saw my son punt a soccer ball straight up into the air the way my dad would week after week in my youth to signal the end of practice, I actually said out loud “Well hey Dad!” And last night as Greta and I were crossing the street to her car, the way her body turned around over and over again to make sure my son was close and not going to get hit. It was my dads body language and his overprotective parenting pouring out of her. 
And while I know my dad is no longer the first person I’ll call when I have great news to share, or the person I’ll scan the room looking for when I need a really tight squeeze, I know he’s still here. And always will be because of moments like these. And that brings me an immense amount of comfort and warmth. Almost as much comfort and warmth as those big ol’ hands of his.