“Your dad’s proudest moment,” Uncle Bear told me last week, “wasn’t any of his own accomplishments. It was the day you did your first solo ride. He called me at midnight, crying like a baby, saying his little girl didn’t need him to ride anymore. That’s when he knew he’d done his job right.”
But here’s the thing Uncle Bear didn’t understand, and what I wish I could tell Dad now: I always needed him to ride with me. Not because I couldn’t do it alone, but because everything was better with him there.
Last week, I felt Harper kick for the first time. I was sitting on Dad’s Harley in the garage, just sitting there in the silence, my hands on the handlebars where his hands used to be. When I felt that flutter in my belly, I started crying.
“Your grandpa would have loved you so much,” I whispered to my daughter. “He would have taught you to ride. He would have braided your hair before putting your helmet on. He would have been the kind of grandpa who shows up to everything in a leather vest and makes all the other grandpas look boring.”
But then I felt something else. Not Harper kicking. Something different. A warmth, a presence, a feeling like strong hands on my shoulders.
I don’t believe in ghosts. But I believe in Dad. And I believe he was there in that garage with me, meeting his granddaughter for the first time.Continue reading…
