It's Been 8 Years...

A note to my late wife, on all that she's missed. Her memory hovers over this house like some sunny high-pressure system.

Dear Poshy, it would’ve been our 44th wedding anniversary the other day, so I thought I’d catch you up on a few things.

These kids of yours, they turned out just great. I give you full credit. They are kind, tough, trustworthy, warm.

As adults, they are an absolute joy to be around. Well, mostly. They are, after all, our kids.

There are so many things I’m sorry about. We could’ve had a better marriage. As many parents do, we rolled all our love and energy into our kids and jobs and forgot to leave a bit of kindness for each other.

Not to be dramatic, but that was tragic.

I will say this: I was lucky to have you. I was lucky for every moment.

It’s been almost eight years since you died. I joked the other day that your ghost still lives here on the cul-de-sac. In many ways, that’s true. Your memory hovers over this house like some sunny high-pressure system.

You will be, now and forever, the most influential figure in our children’s lives.

Here’s an update: The lovely and patient older daughter pretty much runs the family. No one asked her to. It’s just her way.

You’d be so proud. She is funny, tenacious, devoted…

“Oh, tiger’s heart wrapped in a woman’s hide…”

Your daughter is never happier than when she is surrounded by her kids at dinner or splashing with them in the bath.

The other daughter, Rapunzel, has your easy charm. People feel very comfortable around her. She’s taken to motherhood the way geese take to shimmering lakes.

Smartacus? He was only 15 when you died. You were so worried about him — we all were. But he has really stepped up. He’s a rascal, no question, but he knows when to bear down and grind out tough tasks.

Tell me, is there a better life trait?

For a while, we weren’t sure we would get him through the fourth grade. Remember how wiggly he was doing homework?

Well, he’s graduating from college this month, with mostly A’s and B’s. He did it, I’m sure, to make you proud.

Funny when our own kids inspire us, isn’t it?

As you know, we hit the jackpot when it came to sons-in-law, we couldn’t have done better if you held a sweepstakes or gave away candy-apple Ferraris.

Not surprisingly, they are world-class dads. It’s really something to behold, the way they love your grandchildren. Imagine all the good feelings you ever had meatballed into single moments.

Speaking of meatballs, the 300-Pound Beagle crossed the Rainbow Bridge about five years ago.

Seen him around? Is it true that all dogs go to Heaven? Has he ruined all the carpets yet?

We still have White Fang, your late son’s husky. She is, like him, very stubborn. And needy. Yet beautiful. In her, Christopher lives and breathes.

Finally, the thing I’m probably angriest about: That you never met these grandchildren of yours. You at least deserved that.

Where was God? What was he thinking? To borrow from a sonnet, “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see” I’ll never understand cancer.

Well, there’s a bit of God — and you — in these grandkids.

The littlest one, Mookie, has your saucer eyes. No one sees the resemblance except me, but I can assure you that she has your eyes. As the person who stared into your eyes more than anyone, I think I am qualified.

Is Mookie you? I think they all are.

The middle punk, Puddles, is a total scamp. He’s got these amber curls — like maple leaves — and Dodger-blue eyes. You’d eat him up.

And, finally, there is Cakes. Like you, she is the oldest child. Like you, she misses nothing.

Cakes would own you. By now, you’d be teaching her to make scrambled eggs or taking her to the zoo. You’d be buying her too many princess gowns.

Basically, you’d be doing all those things grandmas do with their oldest grandchild, the one they’ll know the most.

In an often-rotten world, that may be our most-reliable comfort: grandmas and their oldest grandkids

Final note: These three tiny grandkids represent you, honor you, carry your DNA forward in their curls, their smiles, they mirth.

They are your memoir, the book we can’t put down. I’m so sorry you missed their giggly hugs.

So, we’re sending you their hugs — a big, embarrassing box of them, next-day delivery, wrapped in tissue paper with crooked hand-drawn hearts.

Please open immediately.

Next week: So long, Rhonda the Honda. Hello, new Ford.