There are those who would say that I have not processed the death of my father, but I don’t know what that means. Believe me, if there were a simple “process,” I would have completed it long ago. What I do know is that I miss him—with every breath. It is to him that I owe everything and I have spent the last 10 years since his death trying to quantify his effect on my life. There are no numbers, no words, no pithy expressions that can accomplish that.

Every walk, every foray, every adventure, however, keeps me close to him. Each time I pitch up to an unbelievable sight, I see it through two sets of eyes: his and mine. The wonder I feel is his—he taught me that. This was a man who bundled up three small children in the middle of the night and rowed them out into the middle of a pond to see a full moon. I have yet to meet another person who enjoyed life as much as he did.

I worked side by side with my father for 15 years against his wishes (he saw bigger things for me), but after graduating from college and living around the world, I gravitated back to him. And, we thrived. Not only did we work side by side, every morning we would meet up and walk our dogs or, if conditions were just right, we would take a few sled runs. When the weather cooperated, we would bike to work, he outflying me by a lot. I could go on and on and list the incredible adventures we shared, but I would be at this laptop for hours. Let me just say that he’s not someone I was born into—he was someone I admired, revered and wanted to be close to, by choice.

I just can’t figure out what to do when that gravitational force is gone. I think I’m doing all right by him. He would love this—my whatever adventure. And he would love that I’m writing. He gave me strength that I have yet to tap and I look forward to discovering it. I just wish he were here to bounce my crazy thoughts off of—he understood them and applauded my audacity, but reined me in when needed.