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I miss my dad in the afternoons. Between 3 and 4, if it was a nice day, he’d take the dog outside and sit in his lawn chair beside my shed for an hour or so until the mail came. After the mail came, he’d slowly make his way with his walker down our driveway to the mailbox. He’d gather the mail in a plastic grocery bag or tuck it into his shirt or jacket if he’d forgotten the bag. Sometimes he didn’t make it back up the driveway before Sarah or I would arrive home from work and turn into the driveway. Almost blind and with hearing failing, he’d putter along in front of the van or truck, often not realizing we were behind him until he reached the corner of the house and caught a glimpse of our vehicle. Other days, when the mail came a little earlier, he’d make it all the way back. He’d let the dog in the house and make sure the gate was open so we could drive right in without stopping.

That was his routine. He did it as often as he could and seemed to enjoy it. Getting out of the house, even if just in a hundred feet radius, did him good. He felt he was doing us a service by taking the dog out, getting the mail, and opening the gate prior to our arrival. He wanted to be useful, to do his part to make our lives easier.

Yesterday and the day before, I found myself going outside about 3:00. These beautiful fall days should have warmed my heart, but I felt cold and lonely. The empty lawn chair beside the shed beckoned me to sit in my dad’s former place for a while. And I did while Peanut sniffed around the yard and played in the leaves. I sat there and grieved the loss of my dad and his little routines. Those little routines were demonstrations of love. They weren’t big jobs; anyone could do them. But now, he’s not here to do them. Someone else will have to or they won’t get done.

I remember on several occasions that I thanked him for bringing in the mail, but now that he’s gone, I really appreciate his little routine. And I thank you for reading this blog and grieving with me.

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