I’m not sure you ever truly say goodbye. As memories of my
father continue to wash over me, I find myself reflecting on the pivotal
moments, his quiet wisdom, the countless meaningful conversations, and the spoken and unspoken
lessons that shaped the way I think, lead, love, and live.
My father was a man of humble means and an even humbler
spirit. At any social gathering, he never sought to be the center of attention.
Yet somehow, he left each room with everyone feeling as though they had been
truly seen and heard. While others gravitated toward the power players or the
most prominent voices, you’d often find him deep in conversation with the coat
check attendant, the valet, or the wait staff. He had a rare and remarkable
gift, the ability to make every single person feel like the most important one
in the room.
One memory, in particular, stands out not only as a
cherished moment but as a defining lesson that shaped my work ethic. I was
about nine years old, and my father had decided to replace the kitchen floor
with spanking hot linoleum. It was the '70s… what more can I say? Curious
about the process and eager to learn, I asked if I could help. He welcomed me
in without hesitation. He patiently showed me how to wedge a spade under the
edge of each tile and gently tap it with a hammer. If you were lucky, the tile
would come up whole. But most of the time? It came up in tiny, stubborn pieces,
one after the other.
The work was slow and tedious, but I loved every minute of
it. I was learning something new. I was doing something big. And most
importantly, I was doing it with my dad. When we finally stepped back to look
at the fully cleared floor, there was a shared pride between us. Exhausted and
covered in dust, I took a well-earned bath. Wrapped in my pajamas, I looked
down at my hands—red, blistered, beat up. Calluses had already begun to form.
The sting was setting in. I walked over to my father and held out my hands,
eyes brimming with tears. “Look at my hands,” I said. “They’re ugly.”
He smiled gently, took my hands in his, and in that moment,
he delivered a lesson I’ve carried with me ever since. “Sweetheart,” he said,
“when I look at these hands, the last thing I see is ugly. What I see is a
little girl who took on a job way bigger than she was and didn’t give up. That,
kid, is work ethic. Don’t ever be afraid of hard work.” In that moment, I saw
my hands—and myself—through my father’s eyes. He taught me that hard work is
never something to be ashamed of. That with grit, heart, and a steady approach,
you can take on something far bigger than yourself and see it through. It
wasn’t just about removing old tiles. It was about showing up, staying
the course, and sharing time with my father in a way that etched itself into my
character. The job may have ended that day, but the lesson stayed with me: Hard
work, even when it’s messy, uncomfortable, and unglamorous, is always worth it.
Another special memory was the night I won my title in the
Miss Rhode Island, Miss America pageant. When the judge called my name, I
stepped forward, was crowned, and began the traditional winner’s walk, smiling
through the lights, the applause, and the surreal joy of the moment. Then, out
of nowhere, my father, overcome with pride, pushed past security, rushed the
stage, and wrapped me in the biggest, most heartfelt hug. It was completely out
of character for him, a man usually respectful of rules and decorum. But in
that moment, none of it mattered. His pride took over. He was just a dad, proud
of his daughter for reaching such a huge achievement. It meant the world to me.
That hug said everything: how proud he was, how much he loved me, and how
deeply he shared in that milestone. He broke every rule of etiquette just to
make sure I knew it, and I’ve never forgotten that.
In the final weeks of his life, it was impossible not to
reflect on the lifetime of moments we had shared, each memory more meaningful
as I began to understand that our time together was drawing to a close. My
father had become quite ill, and in those tender days, the greatest gift I
could offer him was comfort, love, and presence. For all he had given me over
the years, I was more than willing to do whatever I could to make those moments
count, to show him just how deeply I appreciated every time he had shown up for
me.
And there were so many times. Through chicken pox and school
plays, bullies and broken hearts, graduations, singing engagements, job promotions, the
birth of my son, and every milestone since. And in those final weeks, all I wanted was to return the favor; to be present, attentive, and fiercely loving. To offer him the same sense of comfort, security, and unconditional love he had always given me.
I spent the last night of his life curled up beside him,
holding his hand, running my fingers gently through his soft white hair. I
rested my hand over his heart, feeling the rhythm of a lifetime of love and
memories still beating beneath my palm. I told him how deeply I loved him. That
he had been the father I never knew I needed. I promised him I would take care
of Mom. That I would keep doing things to make him proud. And then, through
tears and an ache I can’t quite describe, I gave him permission to go.
As much as it pained me to imagine life without him, I
wanted him to know it was okay to rest. His body and his spirit were ready. And
in one of the most selfless acts of my life, I surrendered him to the peace he so deserved. But the truth is,
I’m not sure you ever truly say goodbye to someone who shaped you so deeply.
His love, his lessons, his presence, they will live on in the stories I tell, the
values I carry, and the way I move through the world. He is the whisper in my conscience, the warmth in my courage, the steady beat in my chest.
I am better because he was mine. I will be forever grateful for the gift of calling him my dad, and I will miss him more than words can ever express.
So while I let him go that night, I carry him with me still. And always will.
In saying goodbye, I didn’t lose him. I found him in everything he
left behind.
Love you, Dad.
