One Year Later

My father, John Wyman Adams, passed away a year ago today. I knew the anniversary was approaching, but it sometimes still doesn’t feel real. In the lead up to his death, I always assumed we would have more time. More time to talk. More time to bond. More time to share. More time to laugh. Man, I miss his laugh.

A few weeks ago, it dawned on me that the anniversary would coincide with a trip out to the office. Once I realized this, I knew that I wanted to visit Aptos on this day and I wanted to sit on the beach for a bit. I wanted to feel the breeze. I wanted to feel the sun. I wanted to breathe. I wanted to reflect. I wanted to grieve.

The other morning, while somewhere in between awake and dreaming, I thought how it had been awhile since I had called my dad. I wanted to call him. I wanted to give him an update on what had been going on. I wanted to talk about Max starting sixth grade and how he is in middle school now. I wanted to talk about Adelaide’s first day of kindergarten and about how brave she was. I still want to share this with him.

I’m not sure how to describe it, but I sometimes feel him with me. I see him in the mirror. I hear his laugh when I laugh. It’s funny how similar some of our mannerisms are, even though we never lived together. There are many traits that I share with him and many that I don’t. I would have loved the opportunity to learn more ways in which we are similar.

Thanks to the fog for cooperating today. I had my time in the sun at Seacliff. I thought about walking along the beach with my dad when he visited us years ago. I thought about him walking alongside Max and my sister. I thought about him sharing an ice cream cone with Max at Marianne’s while I enjoyed an ice cream cone this evening. I thought about him.