like me and dad used to do

 I heard it for the first time today. It was much sooner than I'd anticipated and hurt much more than I expected. I thought I'd sort of prepared for it - but I hadn't, not yet.

I woke up from a nap to find Nika making banana muffins. It's something she and Rico have been doing as long as she could reach the counter in the kitchen. She was taking them out of the oven and I told her they looked great. She said, "They aren't quite done yet - I have to finish the tops like me and dad used to do."

Used.

To.

Do.

He is still in the house. He was only 15 feet from her. 

But she was in the kitchen alone, dipping the tops into melted butter and cinnamon, because she was right - they used to do that. They never will again. 

He's still here - but pieces of him are past tense. He will never bake muffins with her again. He will never blast Greek music and dance around the kitchen making coutsonia. No more tickle fights. No more bedtime stories. No more family games of Telestrations. No more "breaking the rules" by sneaking off with dad to get ice cream before dinner. 

She is mourning him while he is sitting next to us. We all are.

And I wonder - I pray to God that this is not the part of him they carry. I don't honestly know how this will play out. We all have our own jobs here, but I hope these months of caring for him are not their predominant memories of who Rico is - and who he was.

Instead hope that they carry road trips and confidence and silly songs, and piggy-back rides on his strong back. I hope they carry Beatles music and spontaneity. I hope they carry his work ethic, his laughter, the security of their small hands in his. I hope they hear his voice when they read Amelia Bedelia to their own kids. I hope they remember building butterfly houses and American Girl bunkbeds - body surfing in Hawaii and running around on 100 Kind Deeds Day. I hope they remember people's names and always reach out for a handshake. I hope their hearts are heavy with brilliant memories of him, but lightened by how much they have been loved.

How much they used to be loved by their dad.

How much they always will be.

Always.

Always.

Always.