Dear Papa,
Today’s your birthday. I think you’d be turning 67. Pretty sure you were never 100% sure and I’m not 100% sure so we’re even. Ha! We think about you all the time. Nonna told me she saw River twice today. Certainly doesn’t seem like a coincidence.
I’ve been meaning to write you to share some memories from your celebration. I just couldn’t take pictures that day, so I’ve got a real head full of mental pictures I snapped just for you.
When we arrived at the cemetery, I was delighted to see the most perfect concrete container. It had a “VF” inside a heart traced on top just for you. And it was surrounded by the most beautiful flowers and succulents. We brought a baby succulent home and it watches over us from the kitchen windowsill.
I held your eldest son’s hand during the ceremony. He has the softest hands. It was his birthday. And while I’m not sure there is anything quite as traumatizing as attending a memorial with all of your family after just receiving a diagnosis, he was the big brother he always is. Your daughter broke down. Your wife was beautiful. Sofia recited a prayer with such confidence and poise. Nate was really still, blinking and blinking. He does that when he’s trying not to cry. My sons were wearing their matching navy linen button-up shirts and charcoal shorts. With their cousins, they released a basket full of beautiful white pigeons, disguised as doves. The birds flew up and away in unison. While we looked off through the trees, they circled back toward us and then carried our love up into the sky.
Father Rod was funny. He’d forgotten his phone and all his directions, but he carried on nonetheless. A true professional. Your big, loving family was all there. The cousins grown. New cousins on the way.
We piled into hot cars and headed to the Elks outdoor pavilion. It was big and shady and almost held the hundreds of friends you’ve made over a lifetime. Your brother and your youngest son played their guitars and made us all smile as we sang along to all the best songs. All of your kids spoke. James talked about how you never tried to be perfect, but you were perfect at trying. He’d just had his stomach surgery so he mostly had coconut popsicles. Erin handled the caterer disappearing with the utmost calm and poise. A man came and talked about how you’d poured that very patio we were all standing on, while the kids ran around the grass, guzzling the unguarded lemonade. I know you’re not a man for big gatherings and a lot of chitchat, but it really couldn’t have been more perfect– you would have loved it.
It was a celebration of you and all that you mean to us. Today Terra had her baby boy, on your birthday. And his middle name is Vincent. We had a big Italian dinner downtown with Nonna. Happy birthday Papa!