It’s 5 in the morning and I’m sitting on the tarmac in Sacramento.

Bound for Maine.

She called me nearly two weeks ago and left a message saying she just wanted to hear my voice. Everything was fine, she offered, knowing that I would worry otherwise.

My grandmother.

I meant to call her back.

I wanted to call her back. To hear her voice.

But, one day’s deadlines followed another day’s search for a new bathing suit for Katie, and another day of, well, life. Little fires that we all put out daily.

Each night, as I lay in bed, I remembered that I had forgotten to return her call and each night I vowed to call her the next day.

Because she would be there. She has always been there. Always.

Yesterday, always ended. She suffered a massive heart attack in her sleep and my chance to call her back… to hear her voice… evaporated.

So now, I sit here. Waiting to go and be there for her funeral. And I am filled regret and such profound sorrow.

If you owe someone a phone call… a letter… a visit, don’t wait for tomorrow.

Because there are no guarantees that there will be another tomorrow.

Thank you, Craig, for scooping me off the floor when I got the news.
Thank you for knowing that I had to go home… had to be there.
Thank you for immediately researching last-minute flights and for securing my travel when I could do nothing but sob.
Thank you for always being who I need in any given moment.

The text came from nowhere, jarring me from present to past in an instant.

Words, from Maine to California.

From my brother…

Cleaning out mom’s attic. Were u ever looking for your dad’s old Vietnam diary?

No… I wasn’t looking for it.

Because I didn’t even know it existed.

I’ve spent my life wishing for something… anything… that could help me to know him in some way and in an instant, that became possible.

K. found some stuff. i’ll set it aside n ship it 2 u.

How did I not know it even existed? Did I ever ask my mom? Did she forget she had it? Is there something between those covers that she didn’t think I was ready to read?

Everything I know about my dad has been told to me by someone else… filtered through their own experiences and love for him.

Distilled.

Though I’ve longed to know what my dad thought of me… of being a parent… of how he viewed his world, I’m preparing myself for much less.

Yet, somehow, maybe more.

Maybe it will be filled with what he ate, music he loved, places he visited.

Maybe I’ll find clues to who he was. Hints at the way he and I are alike… the parts of who I am that are hardwired… handed to me at birth, before he could teach and influence me.

I’ve longed to find some tangible thread to connect us.

Waiting for my brother to mail to me the very thing that I’ve grieved the non-existence of is truly excruciating.

I didn’t ask him what it says. I won’t because I can’t.

Hearing his words over the phone would cheapen them, somehow.

Even if they simply read, “It was hot today. Had a ham sandwich for lunch.”

Somehow, even the simplicity of that will be enough.

But, now I wait.

Dear Katie,

We sat at brunch, chatting about the week ahead over our blueberry bagels, but we couldn’t help but overhear their joy.

Happiness has a way of carrying through the air, touching everyone within its reach.

She sat, with her maxi dress stretched across her growing belly, and spoke of all that was to come.

His sparkling eyes echoed her anticipation. His voice carried this new wonder that had become a part of their world.

The nursery… the tiny toes… the right toys, the perfect name.

Seven years ago, your daddy and I were enveloped in that same joyous anticipation.

We waited for you. We dreamed about you. We couldn’t wait until the day when we could hold you in our arms.

I wanted so desperately to approach the couple at brunch… to tell them that the moments with your first baby are everything they dream they’ll be. And so much more.

Because, my sweet girl, as much as I knew that I would adore you, I could have never imagined just how much magic you would bring to our lives.

Thank you for gifting those months of anticipation to us and for every single moment of happiness you’ve brought us since.

Thank you for making us parents.

With a heart overflowing with love,

Mommy

We’ve decided to keep one of them… the one who isn’t sick of my obsession with capturing every single moment of their lives.