how he lived

Summer in Connecticut has always meant hot and humid, lots of Coreys, and big fun.  The kids and I have been in the habit of visiting most years in late July, and although the unexpected, unfathomable death of Dad brought everything to a screeching halt on July 23, 2010, there was never any doubt that we'd be here on that same date in 2011. 

We wanted to be with mom on this first anniversary, to mark the passage of a full year without him. It's still unreal and the hurt is still fresh and raw, but we also feel a strange sense of accomplishment at having survived every single calendar day from one July 23 to the next. Now it's like we are turning a page, we've weathered the worst of this storm and we know that although every holiday, anniversary, birthday and Sunday will be less fun without Dad; we can redefine our expectations to reflect this new reality, and we're going to be okay.

We honored Dad on the first annversary of his death by coming together to scatter his ashes.

Yeah, I sound brave. Aren't I brave?

It was perfect. It was brutal. Brutally perfect.

Once everyone had arrived, we went with some of Mom and Dad's dearest friends out onto the waters of the Long Island Sound. We were determined to make this a celebration of Dad's life.

The Oscars came aboard.

The captain's qualifications were questionable, at best.

The passengers were lovely, but don't get me started on that cheese.

We foraged out into the sea.

Our hosts had a spot in mind, a place with a landmark that we could remember and revisit.

When we reached that spot, we stopped and gathered at the bow. Mom had selected a few verses for us to share, so we each found a place to sit or perch, and those of us who wanted to were invited to speak or sing or read or bawl just exactly however the spirit moved us.

I had a passage in hand that I'd chosen to read, and I knew I'd be okay because I'm strong like bull and brave like lion. All the weaklings were crying and carrying on, so I stood to go first and show everyone that we could do this, piece of cake.

I started to read, and suddenly the weight of those words and that moment and the harsh face of our new reality came crashing right down onto my heart. I got through it, but barely. My brave strong voice was a quivering whisper. It was really hard.  

Not How He Died...But How He Lived


Not how did he die, but how did he live?
Not what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not, what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever ready, with word of good cheer,
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away.
           ~Summer Sandercox

Several others followed suit, it didn't get any easier but it was cathartic and therapeutic and significant. And brutal. Then we sang, then we stood and gathered the only part of Dad that we still had to hold, and we watched as Mom gently lowered his ashes into the welcoming water. 

Each one of us followed Mom's lead and watched as the strangely heavy package dwindled to little more than a handful for Mom to keep, while the rest blossomed on top of the suddenly still water, mingling beautifully with the bright flowers we'd offered.

And we cried and we cried together, then slowly we welcomed the laughter back. Together.

 

Because Dad's legacy is this family, his girls. Mom. His grandchildren.  And always, laughter. That's how he lived.